"H'm, that wasn't half bad of him, poor old thing." That admission meant a great deal from Ted.
"There's a letter there for you,—from Knowles, I think."
"What's he writing about?" She tore open the envelope. To her intense surprise she found a cheque for fifty guineas in it, and this note:—
"Dear Miss Haviland,—Forgive my saying so, but when you want to sell your pictures, why don't you consult your friends instead of going to a thieving dealer? I found the Witch in the hands of such an one, and rescued her, for I won't say how little. As I could not possibly keep my ill-gotten gains on any other terms, please accept the enclosed, which with what you probably received will make up something like her real value. I need not tell you how delighted I am to possess so exquisite a specimen of your best work."
"Ted, what am I to do? Send it back again?"
"No, you little fool! Keep it, and never do that again—for any one."
For any one? What was there that she would not do for Vincent? But Ted, having said that, looked more depressed than ever. He went to the fireplace, and leaned against the chimneypiece, shading his face with his hand.
"What is it, Ted?"
He made no answer. A terrible fear clutched at her heart, and he saw it in her eyes.