John Denby came erect in his chair.
"Not been there— What do you mean? How do you know?"
"Brett. I found these upstairs in my room—every letter I've written her—even the first one from here before I left—returned unopened, marked 'unclaimed, address unknown,' together with a letter from Brett in explanation. I've just been talking with him on the 'phone, too."
"So that's it—why he looked so at the station! What did he say? Why didn't he let you know before?"
"He says it was a long time before the first letter came back. He knew we were away up in the mountains, and would be very likely started for home before he could reach us with it, anyway. And there wouldn't be a thing we could do—up there, except to come home; and we'd already be doing that, anyway. And this would only worry us, and trouble us, and make our return trip a horror—without helping a bit."
"Quite right. Brett is always right," nodded John Denby.
"Then, of course, came the delay, your sickness, and all. Of course he wouldn't let us know then—when we couldn't come. By that time other letters I had written on the way out began to come back from Wenton. (I always used my own envelopes with the Dalton address in the corner, so of course they all showed up here in time.) When the second and third came he knew it wasn't a mistake. He'd been hoping the first one was, somehow, he said."
"Yes, yes, I see. And of course it might have been. But what did he do? Didn't he do—anything?"
"Yes. First, he said, he kept his own counsel—here in town. He knew we'd want to avoid all gossip and publicity."
"Of course!"