“And I am unable to explain as yet. But I brought you a note from Louis Carlyle, Mrs Bellmark. You only glanced at it. Will you do me the favour of reading me the last paragraph?”
She picked up the letter from the table where it lay and complied with cheerful good-humour.
“There is some suggestion that you want me to accede to,” she guessed cunningly when she had read the last few words.
“There are some three suggestions which I hope you will accede to,” he replied. “In the first place I want you to write to Mr Johns next door—let him get the letter to-night—inquiring whether he is still disposed to take this house.”
“I had thought of doing that shortly.”
“Then that is all right. Besides, he will ultimately decline.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed—it would be difficult to say whether with relief or disappointment—“do you think so? Then why——”
“To keep him quiet in the meantime. Next I should like you to send a little note to Mr Irons—your maid could deliver it also to-night, I dare say?”
“Irons! Irons the gardener?”
“Yes,” apologetically. “Only a line or two, you know. Just saying that, after all, if he cares to come on Monday you can find him a few days’ work.”