"But the message, sir," Alice interrupted, "you cannot know how we have been longing for a word from him all this time."
"I do not know yet, Miss Hardy, whether I have any message to deliver; it depends upon what you say in answer to what I tell you. I think I can give you his very words as we sat together the night before I left for England: 'I have a little cousin, a girl, she was like my sister; I think, I hope, that in spite of everything she may still have believed me innocent. Will you see her, and tell her you have seen me? Say no more until you see by her manner whether she believes me to be a rascal or not.'"
"No, no," Alice broke in, with a cry, "not for one moment; surely Frank never doubted me. Never for a single instant did I believe one word against him."
"Is anything the matter, my dear?" Captain Bayley asked, opening his door, for the sound of her raised voice had reached him.
"No, uncle," she cried, hurrying to him, "it is a message from Frank. Go away a minute, or——No," and she turned again to Mr. Adams, "surely my uncle can hear too, he is as interested as I am."
"My message was to you alone, Miss Hardy," Mr. Adams said gravely; "I must deliver it as it was delivered to me. It will be for you to decide whether, after hearing it, you think it right to observe the injunction it contains for your absolute silence."
"At least tell me, sir," Captain Bayley exclaimed, as much agitated as Alice, "whether he is alive and well."
"He is alive and well, sir—at least he was when I saw him last, now nearly four months ago."
"Thank God for that, at least," Captain Bayley said fervently. "Do not be long, Alice; you know what I shall be feeling." He went back into his room again, and closed the door, and Mr. Adams continued—
"'If she thinks me a rascal, give her no clue to the part of the world where you have come across me, simply say that I wished her to know that I am alive and well.' There, Miss Hardy, my message would have ended had you not declared your faith in his innocence; I can now go on: 'If you see that she still, in spite of everything, believes that I am innocent, then tell her that I affirm on my honour and word that I am so'—Alice gave a cry of joy—'though I see no way of proving it. Tell her that I do not wish her to tell my uncle that she has heard of me; that I do not wish her to say one word to him, for, much as I value his affection, I would not for the world seem to be trying to gain the place he thinks I have forfeited, until I can appear before him as a rich man whom nothing could induce to touch one penny of his money, and who values only his good-will and esteem.'