“It was Mr. Hayward—”
“Him! What was he wanting?”
“A notebook, and he was terrible particular about the size. He had a piece o’ paper with the measurements wrote on it.”
“Ye wouldna find anything fine enough to suit him.”
“But I did. There was one left o’ the half-dozen that ye got once for Mr. Symington. He said it was the very thing. . . . Could ye no’ eat something?”
He was brooding again, and minutes passed ere he roused himself.
“That postman’s got me,” he muttered bitterly, “got me as never a man was got before. I’m cornered. He’ll hear from the girl to-morrow—they’ll ha’ planned about writing, ye can be sure—and then he’ll get to work wi’ the letter. God! I feel like making a bolt for it—but where can a man hide in these days o’ wireless telegrams and so forth.” All at once he turned on her snarling: “What for did ye interfere wi’ my private affairs?”
She winced and shuddered. “The Lord kens I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “And He kens I would do anything to help ye now. John, is there anything I can do?”
“Aye,” he replied with a dreadful ironic laugh, “ye can burn the cursed letter!”
Gaping, she gazed at him. What did he mean?