He knew that there was more involved than the death of his uncle; the very letter in his hands, short, almost curt, dry and barren of information as it was, showed that the writer had something to communicate too important to be told in a letter. At whatever cost, he felt that he should have to go back to Creux.
And then came another thought; his uncle’s wife must know, and at once. So he put a copy of Olwen’s letter upon paper, since he could not trust the epistle itself out of his hands, and enclosed it with a couple of lines to Signora Beata.
The next day was Friday, and having, not without difficulty, succeeded in getting two days’ leave, Bayre came back to the Diggings soon after four to prepare for his journey on the morrow. He found Southerley in the sitting-room, and he told him briefly about the letter and his proposed journey.
“And,” he added, “I’ve written to his wife.”
“You mean Miss Merriman?”
“Yes, Miss Merriman, if you like. But remember, she is Mrs Bayre—Mrs Bartlett Bayre.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” said Southerley, walking up and down the room. “Will she go to him?”
“I don’t know, but I should think so.”
Southerley nodded, but said nothing, and Bayre left him and went upstairs.
And five minutes after, while Southerley was still pacing up and down like a bear in its cage, Susan opened the door and announced,—