They could and they did. But Dick did not know what Clare would think of the bargain he had struck with Lewis. She had expected the two to talk endlessly, to hash everything over.... Or what had she expected after all? Dick was no longer so certain. Well, he had only to get back to Clare, look in her candid, sweet eyes, to lose this sudden new sense of confusion about what her motives in getting him to confide in Lewis might be. She could and would explain to Dick’s complete enlightenment and satisfaction. She always did.
That evening Dick left Lewis reading Agatha Christie’s last detective novel by an open fire and walked into Northeast Harbor alone for their mail. If Clare had written him yesterday, as she had half promised to do, the letter would come to-night. All through the long hours on the misty golf course and ever since, this expectation of a letter coming to-night had been a steady undertow to all that went on in Dick’s mind. The entire day had been for him nothing in the world but a straight path to the letter window of Northeast Harbor’s little post office. The mail was sorted by eight-thirty, he knew, and sometimes a trifle earlier. But, taking hold on all the strength of character he possessed, Dick had determined not to arrive at that window of dreams one minute before the certain time of half-past eight. He knew how painful it would be to stand around waiting, watching the mail being sorted and not absolutely certain of his letter. Now, as he came down the village street through the drizzling fog, he saw that the cars parked near the post office were starting up their engines and that people with letters and papers in their hands were coming from the post-office door. And he walked faster. Whether the thick thugging tom-tom his heart had set up was delight or anguish, he did not consider.
The window gained, and Dick’s turn in the writing queue at last arrived, he snatched the little bundle of letters from the smiling postmistress with a muttered, blind “good evening” and turned with it to the counter. His fingers, shuffling the letters through as he looked for Clare’s hand, were shaking. There were half a dozen letters for Doctor Pryne readdressed in Petra’s script. But there was nothing for himself. Nothing that counted. Petra had written him, it seemed. A letter in a fat envelope. But he was so dulled by disappointment that he hardly bothered to wonder why she had written or what.
He stuffed the whole bunch into his pocket and returned to the delivery window. “Are you sure there’s nothing else for Richard Wilder?” he asked. It was a childish act, he knew, but he could not seem to help himself. Obligingly, the, to Dick, faceless automaton at that fateful window turned back to the letter boxes. She even thrust a hand up into the Wilders’ now grimly empty pigeonhole, pretending to make certain of what was already a certainty. The look on the man’s face asking the unreasonable question made the gesture, empty as it was, a human necessity. She came back to her window. “Nothing now.” The young woman spoke tentatively, averting kindly eyes. “In the morning’s mail perhaps.”
Out in the fog again Dick had to laugh at himself. Why did he need a letter so? They trusted each other, he and Clare. What did passionate friendship mean if not trust and peace, even in separation! Besides, it was scarcely sixty hours since they had parted. And he would see her in thirty-six more. Lewis and he had decided to cut their holiday short and return to-morrow, after all. They gave the weather as their excuse to each other, but not to the Langleys. It was agreed that the doctor to-night was to receive an important letter which made their dashing off necessary. The fact was that ever since Dick had begun to suspect Lewis’ feeling for Petra, a constraint had settled between them which made their close companionship just now more of a strain than a relaxation. So day after to-morrow Dick would be out at Green Doors again. It was unworthy of Clare’s beautiful friendship that he should feel actual written words from her, which he could keep in his pocket and touch, a necessity to his sense of assurance of that friendship. It was unworthy and faithless in him. But letters were uncanny things! Wanting one so terribly was uncanny too....
Lewis glanced up at Dick welcomingly as he came in. The detective story had returned him to a healthy, intellectual mood. He was accustomed to find this type of reading as effective as a good game of contract or chess for keeping one sensible.
“This Christie is O.K., Dick,” he said. “You must read it yourself. It’s as good as anything she has done. I’ll be through in half an hour or so and you can have it.”
“Good! I picked up a new Dorothy Sayers as I came along, at Blaine’s drug store. You can have that to finish the night with. Here’s your mail.”
Dick had dropped the little pile of letters onto the arm of Lewis’ chair, and pulling another chair up to the hearth, he sprawled himself into it, eyes moodily on the fire.
Petra’s fat letter to Dick was on the top of the pile. In his disappointment at not hearing from Clare, Dick had completely forgotten he had any letter at all. Lewis picked it up, turned it around in his fingers, looked at Dick. But Dick was bent forward, poking the fire. He jumped when Lewis spoke.