Maria went into the bedroom to her husband. He was locking his portmanteau.
“That is all, I believe,” he said, transferring the keys to his pocket, and taking up the small hand-case. “Remember that it is sent off by to-night’s train, Maria. I have addressed it.”
“You are not going now, George?” she said, her heart seeming to fail her strangely.
“Yes, I am.”
“But—there is no train. The express must have passed this half-hour.”
“I shall ride over to Crancomb and take the train there,” he answered. “I have some business in the place,” added he, by way of stopping any questions as to the why and wherefore. “Listen, Maria. You need not mention that I have gone until you see Thomas on Monday morning. Tell him.”
“Shall you not see him yourself in London?” she returned. “Are you not going to meet him?”
“I may miss him: it is just possible,” was the reply of George, spoken with all the candour in life, just as though his mission to London was the express one of meeting his brother. “If Thomas should return home without having seen me, I mean.”
“What am I to tell him?” she asked.
“Only that I am gone. There’s no necessity to say anything else. I shall—if I miss seeing him in town—write to him here.”