I felt it—it was fat and uncanny. “Wheels within wheels!” I exclaimed. “There’s something for me too to deliver.”
“So they tell me—to Miss Anvoy.”
I stared; I felt a certain thrill. “Why don’t they send it to her directly?”
Mrs. Saltram hung fire. “Because she’s staying with Mr. and Mrs. Mulville.”
“And why should that prevent?”
Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon’s and of Miss Anvoy’s strange bounty. Where could there have been a more signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? “There’s the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney’s hand.”
Still I didn’t understand; then it flashed upon me. “You mean they might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?” I indignantly demanded.
“It’s not I—it’s Mr. Pudney!” cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. “It’s his own idea.”
“Then why couldn’t he send the letter to you to be delivered?”
Mrs. Saltram’s embarrassment increased; she gave me another hard look. “You must make that out for yourself.”