“Really! She must be a generous young person to give her kisses for nothing.”
There was an ugly silence. The son took a step forward, his hands clenched at his sides.
“Since when,” he asked at length, “have you been employing a private detective?”
A dull flush overran the older man’s countenance. “Be careful! The information was not sought by me.”
“Who gave it?”
“You are welcome to guess.” He flicked a folded note across the table. It was addressed in pencil to “T. H. Hayward, Esq.,” marked “Urgent,” had evidently been torn from a notebook, and had been sealed with a scrap of stamp paper. “The servant found it under the hall door, about an hour ago. That’s all I can tell you.”
Colin opened it, and his face burned as he read—
“A friend advises you that your youngest son and the post-office girl were kissing in the wood to-night.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hayward, “do you know the writing?”
His son made a gesture of negation. “May I keep this?” he managed to say presently.