He was sobered, instantly. She could mean only that it had passed into the Governor's hands—but what?—Suddenly, he understood a part.
"I see," said he, "you wanted to give me a chance to explain; you appointed the rendezvous, and I failed you. Then, in your reasonable and just anger, you told the Governor."
She did not reply, but he knew that, thus far, he was right. His mind ran quickly back over the months that had passed since he came to Annapolis: he had cheated but rarely at cards—and not at all at the house-parties—he had led a thoroughly respectable life, trifled with no woman, victimized no man. There was only one thing that met him, insistently and always: the theft of the gold at Hedgely Hall; and it, he had returned.—Unless—unless, by some queer misadventure, she had received a letter from home, which aroused her suspicion of his identity. And there had come letters to her, before supper—the pinnace brought them down.—It was not Marbury's gold, Marbury was not at Whitehall denouncing him. No, it must be a letter!
"I had a letter from home, to-day," he said.
She started; and he knew he had guessed it.
"From home—did it contain much gossip?" she asked.
"Enough to hurry me back—I shall return with Sir Charles Brandon."
"Bad news?" she inquired.
He smiled. "That depends on the way one looks at it."