Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there arrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing was Mrs Reardon’s, and he could not guess what she had to communicate.
‘DEAR MR MILVAIN,—I am distressed beyond measure to read in this morning’s newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life. Doubtless you can obtain more details than are given in this bare report of the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?’
He read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had not opened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. Hastily he ran his eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which stated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by taking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets identified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He went to Dora’s room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning the letter which had brought it under his notice.
‘I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. I scarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If Reardon had done it, I shouldn’t have felt the least surprise.’
‘Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt,’ said Dora, who, as she spoke, thought more of that gentleman’s visit than of the event that was to occasion it.
‘Really, one can’t grieve. There seemed no possibility of his ever earning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did he go all the way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived, I dare say; Biffen had a good deal of native delicacy.’
Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that desirable quality.
Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was presently on his way to Westbourne Park. It was his hope that he should reach Mrs Yule’s house before any ordinary afternoon caller could arrive; and so he did. He had not been here since that evening when he encountered Reardon on the road and heard his reproaches. To his great satisfaction, Amy was alone in the drawing-room; he held her hand a trifle longer than was necessary, and returned more earnestly the look of interest with which she regarded him.
‘I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,’ he began, ‘and I set out immediately to see you.’
‘I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor man to such extremity?’