Two minutes later Hugh Alston was behaving like a lunatic.
“Mrs. Morrisey! Mrs. Morrisey! When did this letter come?”
“Oh, that one, sir? It came ten days ago—the very day you left, the same evening.”
“Then why—why in the name of Heaven—” he began, and then stopped himself, for he remembered that he had ordered no letters should be sent on.
“I hope it is not important, sir?”
“Important!” he said. “Oh no, not at all, nothing important!” Again he read—
“Because you have placed me in an intolerable position, and have subjected me to insult and annoyance, past all bearing, I ask you to meet me in London at the earliest opportunity...”
At the earliest opportunity! And those words had been written eleven days ago; and she had underscored the word “earliest” three times. Eleven days ago! “I feel I have a right to appeal to you for protection....”
She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read the written words.
What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence?