“You go to-morrow,” said Martin; “and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room.”
Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.
“Whatever is keeping Little-sing?” thought Martin to himself.
He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but 143 of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.
“She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour,” he said to himself. “She is destroying it now; but she sha’n’t—not before I get it.”
He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs. He stopped outside his wife’s bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.
“Open the door at once,” he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.
“Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!”
“Where is that letter, Victoria?”
“It—it—I can’t find it,” she replied.