‘Tell me, Dick,’ she said; ‘I had a deal rather hear straight all he hath to say.’
‘I swear to you——’ Meadowes began; but Anne interrupted him.
‘Then you swear false, Dick: ’tis writ by Sebastian’s own hand, or my name be not Anne Sundon. Best tell me what he saith.’
‘The letter is from a man Steven Shackleton, Anne. You mistook the lettering, being no scholar,’ persisted Meadowes, lying desperately now, his courage had so withered when brought to the point.
Anne faced round upon him; her big clever brown eyes seemed to be reading into his very soul.
‘You’re makin’ up tales, Dick,’ she said. ‘You won’t look me in the eyes and tell me that’s not Sebastian’s hand of write.’
‘There,’ cried Meadowes, facing round to meet her eyes directly. ‘The letter was from——’ His glance fell to the ground, as he added, ‘Steven Shackleton’ again.
‘If so be you speak straight——’ Anne began. But Meadowes with an impatient exclamation cut her short.
‘What do you take me for? Well, I must be off. A fool I was to leave town without reading my letters, for back to it I must go in a couple of hurries. Come, bid me good-bye, Anne,’ he added, bending down towards her.
‘Good-bye,’ said Anne absently, turning away into the cottage.