Miss Letty’s kind face clouded, and her eyes grew very sorrowful.
“No, Dick, she has not actually told me, but I can guess. She has not heard from Max Nugent for a long time,—his letters have practically ceased.”
“Ceased!” repeated the Major, getting very red. “What do you mean, Letty? Ceased?”
“She will not admit it,” continued Miss Letty. “She will not own, even to herself, that he is neglecting her. When I ask her if she has heard from him, she answers me all in a nervous hurry, and assures me that it is because he is away travelling somewhere that she has received no letters. She says he has no time to write. But one would think that if he loved her as he professed to love her, he would certainly find time, or make time to write.”
“Of course he would!” said the Major brusquely. “There is no power on earth that can hinder a man from writing to the woman he loves. Even if he were ill or dying, he could get a friend to send a wire for him. No, no,—there is some humbug going on,—I am sure of it!” He took one or two rapid strides up and down the room. “Letty!” he said, stopping abruptly in front of her,—“when you were engaged to Harry Raikes did he write to you often?”
“Not as often as I should have liked,” answered Miss Letty with a faint smile,—“but then you see he was in India,—that is a long way off—and of course he could not possibly write by every mail.”
“Couldn’t he?” And the Major gave a curious grunt of incredulity. “Why not?”
“If he could he would have done so,” said Miss Letty gently but firmly. “I am sure of that.”
The Major walked up and down the room, loyally battling against the temptation which assailed him to tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“You never doubted him?” he asked suddenly.