“What, my lady?”
“That it could not have been our little boy.”
“And why not, my pretty lady?”
“Because I saw him after he died,” said Barbara. “Oh, you make my heart ache when you talk of him. He is dead and in his grave. Now I will take you to the housekeeper. She will give you a comfortable room for the night.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.
By the morning post Barbara received a letter from Dick. It was short, and its contents were startling.
“Dearest Barbara” (he wrote),—“Something very bad has happened. I dare not and will not tell you what it is, but it is just possible that I shall be obliged to remain in town for a day or two. Please don’t be frightened, darling. The machinations of the wicked seldom prosper, and I have not the slightest doubt that everything will turn out right in the end. If you do not hear from me or see me for a few days try to keep calm and cheerful, for I am convinced that I shall soon be able to return to you, and that this most dark cloud will pass. My promise, however, to come back to Pelham Towers to-morrow I find impossible to fulfil.
“Yours ever, my darling,
“Dick.”
Barbara was standing near the breakfast table when she read this letter. She read it once, twice, and even three times. After the third perusal she put it in her pocket. Mrs. Evershed had entered the room. She was standing near a glorious fire, for the weather happened to be intensely cold, and her eyes, dark and sunken, were fixed upon her daughter’s face.