“If I knew I’d been robbed, it would be different, but I don’t, and if I blamed people who were found to be innocent, I’d only make matters worse for myself.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed coldly. “However, you have made your choice and it’s too late now. Where are you going, Dick?”
“To New York by the first boat from Liverpool.”
He waited, watching her and wondering whether she would ask him to stop, but she said quietly: “Well, I shall, no doubt, hear how you get on.”
“It’s unlikely,” he answered in a hard voice. “I’ve lost my friends with my character. The best thing I can do is to leave them alone.”
Then he looked at his watch, and she gave him her hand. “For all that, I wish you good luck, Dick.”
She let him go, and as he went back to the gate he reflected that Helen had taken the proper and tactful line by dismissing him as if he were nothing more than an acquaintance. He could be nothing more now, and to yield to sentiment would have been painful and foolish; but it hurt him that she had realized this.
When he wheeled his bicycle away from the gate he saw a boy who helped his father’s gardener running along the road, and waited until he came up, hot and panting. The boy held out a small envelope.
“It came after you left, Mr. Dick,” he gasped.
“Then you have been very quick.”