"The cook!" cried Klutz, galvanised by the word into life. "The cook!" He thrust a shaking hand into his breast-pocket and dragged it out, the precious paper, unfolding it with trembling fingers, and holding it before Dellwig's eyes. "So much for your cooks," he said, tremulously triumphant. They were in the road, out of sight of the house. Dellwig took the paper and held it close to his eyes. "What's this?" he asked, scrutinising it. "It is not German."
"It is English," said Klutz.
"What, the governess——?"
Klutz merely pointed to the name at the end. Oh, the sweetness of that moment!
"Anna?" read out Dellwig, "Anna? That is Miss Estcourt's name."
"It is," said Klutz, his tears all dried up.
"It seems to be poetry," said Dellwig slowly.
"It is," said Klutz.
"Why have you got it?"
"Why indeed! It's mine. She sent it to me. She wrote it for me. These flowers——"