"More rheumatic than romantic I should have thought. Better have a glass of grog."
Nan screwed up her bright face with a laugh.
"Heaven forbid, dad! And on a night like this. Oh, bother! Is that a letter for me?"
Colonel Everard was pointing to an envelope on the mantelpiece. She crossed the hall without eagerness, and picked it up.
"I've had one, too," said the Colonel, after a brief pause, speaking with a jerk as if the words insisted upon being uttered in spite of him.
"You!" Nan paused with one finger already inserted in the flap. "What for?"
Her father was staring steadily at the end of his cigar, or he might have seen a hint of panic in her dark eyes.
"You will see for yourself," he said, still in that uncomfortable, jerky style. "He seems to think—Well, I must say it sounds reasonable enough since he can't get back at present; but you will see for yourself."
A little tremor went through Nan as she opened the letter. With frowning brows she perused it.
It did not take long to read. The thick, upright writing was almost arrogantly distinct, recalling the writer with startling vividness.