"Yes?" she said gently.
"Isn't it customary with you to answer your friends when they write to you?" he asked.
Her expression changed. A look of sharp pain showed for an instant in her eyes. "My invariable custom, Nap," she said very steadily.
"Then—that letter of mine—" he paused.
"When did you write it?"
"On the evening of the day you came here last—the day I missed you."
"It did not reach me," she said, her voice very low.
He was watching her very intently. "I sent it by messenger," he said. "I was hunting that day. I sat down and wrote the moment I heard you had been. Tawny Hudson took it."
"It did not reach me," she repeated. She was very pale; her eyes had dropped from his.
"I was going to allow you a month to answer that letter," he went on, as though she had not spoken. "After that, our—friendship would have been at an end. The month will be up to-morrow."