Then Mr. Maitland grasped the fact that the honest policeman was open to a bribe, and he pressed into his hand a larger number of notes than the honest policeman had ever hoped to hold—in the cause of charity. It was a good charity and deserving—whatever! And the policeman left the presence of Mr. Maitland a happy man; and the other policeman left the presence of Diana a most unhappy man—deeply and, he believed, hopelessly in love.
When Marcus, making a final attempt, knocked at Diana’s door, he found it unlocked and a smothered voice told him to come in.
He went in. Diana was hidden under the bedclothes; she emerged at his urgent request. “Diana, my child, I am so sorry.”
He looked at her: she was one of those happy women, he thought, who can cry without its leaving any disfiguring trace.
“It was only my joke writing to the policeman,” he said, smiling as though asking pity for his simplicity.
“And it was only mine in sending for him.”
“You sent for him?”
Diana nodded.
“But think of what Pillar must have thought!”
“Pillar knew—” said Diana; then, seeing Uncle Marcus’s look of astonishment, explained. “Pillar would no more think of sending for a policeman without asking me than he would think of spreading out your clothes without asking you—he is wonderful!—Pillar!”