"'1. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.—Popsy.
"'2. Dearest, dearest, dearest. This is worse than silence. Sobs are cheap to-day.—Popsy.
"'3. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Only Anastasia and the dog. Thought I should have died. Cruel heart, hope on. The white band of hope! Watchman, what of the night? Shall we say 11.15 from Paddington since the sea will not give up its dead? I have drained the dregs. The rest is silence. Answer to-morrow or I shall dree my weird.—Popsy.'
"There was no signature to the letter, but the writing was that which had hitherto borne to poor Sybil the daily assurances of her lover's devotion. She looked at the sleeping traitor so savagely that he moved uncomfortably, even in his sleep. Like a serpent that scrap of paper had entered into her Eden, and she put it in her bosom that it might sting her. Unnoticed, the shadows had been lengthening, the sky had grown gray, as if in harmony with her blighted hopes. Roughly she roused the sleeper, and hastily they wended their way back to the rendezvous, to find tea just over and the rush to the station just beginning. There was no time to talk till they were seated face to face in the railway carriage. The party had just caught the train, and bundling in anyhow had become separated. Sybil and Guy were alone again.
"Then Sybil plucked from her breast the serpent and held it up.
"'Guy,' she said. 'What is this?'
"He turned pale. 'W—w—here did you get that from?' he stammered.
"'What is this?' she repeated, and read in unsympathetic accents: 'Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.—Popsy.'
"'Who is "dearest"?' she continued.
"'You, of course,' he said with ghastly playfulness.