“There is one from Ernest,” she said.
“O, I am so glad!” answered Dorothy. “Who is it for?”
“For Mr. Cardus. O, here he comes.”
Mr. Cardus shook hands with her, and thanked her for bringing the letters, which he turned over casually, after the fashion of a man accustomed to receive large quantities of correspondence of an uninteresting nature. Presently his manner quickened, and he opened Ernest’s letter. Florence fixed her keen eyes upon him. He read the letter; she read his face.
Mr. Cardus was accustomed to conceal his emotions, but on this occasion it was clear that they were too strong for him. Astonishment and grief pursued each other across his features as he proceeded. Finally he put the letter down and glanced at an enclosure.
“What is it, Reginald, what is it?” asked Dorothy.
“It is,” answered Mr. Cardus solemnly, “that Ernest is a murderer and a fugitive.”
Dorothy sank into a chair with a groan, and covered her face with her hands. Florence turned ashy pale.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Read the letter for yourself, and see. Stop, read it aloud, and the enclosure too. I may have misunderstood.”