The others unconsciously left their seats and looked over his shoulder while he smoothed out the sheet. It was dated plainly, “October 7, 1869,” and contained the acknowledgment of two £10 notes won at écarté.
“That is the hand,” said Pensée. “One could not mistake it.”
“Then this is really very serious,” said Lord Reckage, with twitching lips. “The whole story has had all along something of unreality about it. Robert seems fated to a renunciant career—colourless, self-annihilating.”
“What will you do?” murmured Pensée, with an imploring gesture. “What will you do?”
“They leave Southampton at three o'clock,” said Reckage; “it is now half-past two. The steamer goes twice a week only. I can send him a telegram and follow them overland—by way of Calais.”
“Then I must go also,” said Pensée firmly. “She will need me. I have had a presentiment of trouble so long that now I feel ‘Here it is come at last.’ I cannot be too thankful to God that it isn't worse.”
Nothing showed under the innavigable depths of Sara's eyes. She had moved to the fireplace and stood there holding one small foot to the blaze.
“Are you cold?” asked her father anxiously.
“I am ice,” she said, “ice!”
Reckage joined her and said, under his voice, “You think I ought to go, don't you?”