The young man handed her the letter, and instantly Elaine's casual air vanished, for the address was in her husband's handwriting, and had been scrawled hurriedly in pencil.
She tore open the envelope and read the single sheet of notepaper within.
DEAR ELAINE, ran the note, I want you to give the bearer of this ten shillings. Then, if you can, and as soon as you can, you must raise ten pounds and let him bring it here to me. General Whiston and a person called Dacent Smith have been keeping me prisoner here. The suggestion is that I am non compos mentis. I don't know whether my father's in it or not, so on no account mention this letter to him. Whatever you do, don't fail me; I have been suffering the tortures of the damned here. The young man who brings this can get to me, and there is a nurse here who can help me to get away if I can get hold of ten pounds. Remember this, Elaine, you are my wife, and I hope you aren't siding with my father against me. I can't stand the torture of being here any longer, so I look to you to act quickly. You can act quickly enough when you want to. I am nearly off my head with being deprived of the medicine I used to take. The bearer of this would get into trouble if found out, so don't forget to treat him well.
Your affectionate husband,
BERNARD TREVES.
As Elaine slowly read this letter for a second time the colour fled from her cheeks. Her heart-beat quickened almost to suffocation—she could make nothing of it.
Her eyes travelled to the head of the missive and read:
"St. Neot's Nursing Home, Ambleside Road, Ryde."
"St. Neot's Nursing Home—St. Neot's Nursing Home." Under her breath she uttered the words in a dazed, stupefied fashion.
It seemed impossible that her husband, who had been with her only forty-eight hours before, could be incarcerated there. Then the strangeness of the letter! ... She read it again, shrinking instinctively from its tone. Here was her husband as she had known him from the beginning—querulous and domineering.