The night was far advanced when at length she crept upstairs to her husband’s room. By the faint night-light she saw that he was lying perfectly still, his eyes closed. She thought he was asleep.
In a few minutes he moved slightly.
“Marion,” he said, “is that you?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Is it not very late for you to be up?” he asked. “I won’t keep you, but I want to say one thing to you which has been troubling me. When I was at the worst, Marion, delirious, I mean, did I not speak about a letter? It was one I wrote the night before I was taken ill, and I cannot remember where I put it. I should not like it to be lost, and yet I am afraid it would vex you, startle you, if you found it just now. If only I could get up and look for it!”
“You need not wish that, Geoffrey,” she said in a very low voice. “I have found the letter. It slipped out of your big Bible that lies on the table downstairs.”
He started. “You have found it?” he repeated.
“Yes, found it, and—don’t blame me, Geoffrey—I have read it.”
“When?” he asked.
“This very evening. An hour or two ago.”