“Lettaw—lettaw! I confess supweme ignowance of what you mean, my deaw Lucas.”
“Oh, nonsense! Didn’t you receive a letter from Maynard—the morning after the ball?”
Swinton turned white, looking in all directions except into the eyes of Lucas. He was hesitating to gain time—not with the intention of denying it. He knew that he dare not.
“Oh! yas—yas!” he replied at length. “There was a lettaw—a very queaw epistle indeed. I did not get it that day till after yaw had gone. My valet Fwank, stoopid fellow! had thrown it into a cawner. I only wed it on the following mawning.”
“You have it still, I suppose?”
“No, indeed I lit my cigaw with the absawd epistle.”
“But what was it about?”
“Well—well; it was a sort of apology on the part of Mr Maynard—to say he was compelled to leave Newport by the evening bawt. It was signed by his fwend Wupert Woseveldt, calling himself a Count of the Austwian Empire. After weading it, and knowing that the writer was gone, I didn’t think it wawth while to twouble you any fawther about the disagweeable business.”
“By Gad! Mr Swinton, that letter’s likely to get us both into a scrape!”
“But why, my deaw fellow?”