“No, it would not be right, they must be sent,” sobbed Hilda.
“The question with me is, how letters written so long ago came to be in Archie’s coat,” said Mrs. Merryman. “I know that he is, in his sad, preoccupied way, searching for something in his pitiable wanderings, and has his pockets at times filled with trifles, but these letters, while somewhat stained and yellow, are not the least worn, so could not have been carried long in his pocket.”
“It will always be a mystery, I think, unless he is willing to tell us where he found them.”
“He was at our house over night,” said Mrs. Merryman reflectively. “I wonder, if asked, whether he could tell where he got them. Will you ask him, Hilda?”
She obeyed immediately, but as they supposed, he could not give the least information.
“Diana incidentally mentioned that she gave the letters to Perry to mail. It may be that he is the one to blame for their not being received by Mrs. Warfield. I will ask him as soon as I get home,” continued Mrs. Merryman.
“But what could be his object, and where has he kept them all these years without your knowledge?”
“I have not the least idea. He has a small trunk, but it is never locked, nor has he ever given the least evidence that he is keeping anything hidden.”
Hilda arose and left the library, and as she stepped into the hall she heard footsteps of someone passing to and fro upon the long piazza. It was Mr. Courtney, and as she appeared in the door-way he halted and held out his hand to her. She glided swiftly to him and he clasped her hand and placed it within his arm, and silently they walked back and forth.
The ladies prepared for their return home, and Mrs. Merryman went to apprise Hilda, who withdrew her hand to follow. For one brief moment Mr. Courtney clasped her in his arms, for one brief moment she sobbed upon his breast, then she rejoined the others. They bade the master of “My Lady’s Manor” good-night at his gate and left him to his sad forebodings.