"Come with me," he said to Miss Grimshaw, when Effie had at last lain down, eased of her sin and its terrors, "come into the sitting-room."
They went into the sitting-room, and Mr. French put his candle on the table.
"Here's a kettle of fish," said he.
"She put no address on the paper," said Miss Grimshaw, "but——"
"The post-mark."
"Yes, the post-mark. I was thinking of that. There is one comfort, however; the post-mark may be illegible. You know how difficult it is to read a post-mark very often."
"Listen to me," said French, with dramatic emphasis. "This post-mark won't be illegible; it will be as plain as Nelson's pillar. I know it, for it's just this sort of thing that happens in life, and happens to me. The letter won't get lost; if the mail packet was to sink, a shark would rout it out from the mail-bags and swallow it, and get caught, and be cut open, and the letter would go on by next mail. We're done."
"Don't lose heart."
"We're done. I know it. And to think, after all our plotting and planning, that a child's tomfoolery would come, after all, to ruin me. I could skin her alive when I think of it."
He stopped suddenly and turned. A little white figure stood at the door. It was Effie. Seized with an overwhelming spirit of righteousness, hearing her father's voice colloguing, and touched with desire for adventure and a kiss, she had bundled out of bed and run into the sitting-room.