XXII
"Let me take your mail out to little Pete," I said to the Doctor, who was superscribing his last letter, when I came in from the morning's sport.
"Thanks, very much."
He spoke abstractedly; ran over the addresses on several envelopes and handed them to me. I could not help seeing that the one on top was addressed to Delia Beaseley. I fancy he intended I should see it. I felt sure he had written to her for some of the forgotten details of that night in December more than twenty-six years ago.
"He's on the track of that child—me! Cale's story has given him the clew," I said to myself, on noticing his absorption in his own thoughts during dinner and his preoccupation in the afternoon. In the evening he drove over with Cale to meet Mr. Ewart.
I rather enjoyed the course events were taking; it would interest me to watch developments of the Doctor's detective work. In a way, it had all the fascination of a drama of which I felt myself no longer to be an actor, but a spectator.
Jamie cornered me, after the Doctor and Cale drove off to the junction.
"No, you don't!" he said, laughing, as he extended his long arms across the doorway of the living-room to bar my exit. "You will act like a Christian and love your neighbor as yourself this time. Sit down and talk—or I sha'n't be able to finish my last chapter."
Of course I sat down, knowing perfectly well what I was about to hear—at least, I thought I did.
"Marcia—"