“Oh, hang that, man. I told you in my letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one I wrote and pushed into your letter-box after coming twice to tell you.”
“Letter?”
“Why, of course. You had it or you couldn’t have come here.”
Stratton’s hand went to his breast, and the next minute he drew out a soiled letter doubled up into three from the pressure of his pocketbook.
“You wrote this letter to me to tell me you were coming here?” said Stratton in slow, strange accents.
“Of course I did, and I tell you that you have done a mean, cruel thing in following me. It can do no good; Sir Mark will be furious, and it is cruel to Myra.”
“Myra—Myra here!” gasped Stratton as he reeled against the wall.
“Don’t make a scene, man,” said Guest in a low whisper. “Of course; I told you she was coming, and how the old man insisted upon my coming too. Why, you haven’t opened the letter!”