As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in.
"Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for you."
Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy interest, had not yet opened her budget.
"I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.
"The worst," said Lionel with a grim absence, not looking up. Presently his face cleared and he smiled. "That is," he corrected himself, with a hasty glance at her, "I mean the best. Yes, certainly the best."
Winifred bit her lip and looked away with a puzzled discontent. What did he mean? The worst and the best ... strong words for a man of his age to use. The "worst" and the "best" should only be applied to strong emotions, such as are caused by love, money, or honor. Which of these potent stimulants was at work?
"I am going in," she said suddenly. "Please don't get up. If I can be of any help in any way, you must let me know. But I ... I am glad your news is 'the best.'"
She went into the house, leaving Lionel to his letter. This was it.
"Bloomsbury, London.
"My Dear Friend,—The cable announcing Lukos' death came to-night at seven. As soon as I had recovered from the shock I wired the news to you, but I do not expect that the telegram will be delivered till to-morrow morning. And now, at half past eight, I am sitting down to write very hurriedly, to tell you of my plans.
"I mean to go straight to Constantinople within two days. Why? To make sure, in the first instance—to find out for myself if he is really dead, and if it was 'measles' or something worse. I feel that the news must be true, but I must make certain. If it is true, then perhaps I can do something by way of revenge. You, I hope, will still befriend me by trying to regain the stolen papers. They may be of use to England yet. If not to England, then to me—a woman who has lost her husband. This is no time to assess my love for him, but I owe something at least to his memory, and the debt shall be paid.
"I must see you before leaving, and I hope to come down to Shereling to-morrow. Please tell my sister. You know our differences, but I am sure she will sympathize and help me. Yes; I am sure. I believe now that I was wrong in suspecting her—my information was untrustworthy, but I had every excuse. In haste.—Your friend,
"Beatrice Blair."
Lionel's heart leaped as he read a second and a third time the words of comfort. At the first casual glance he could only understand that Beatrice was going out of his life, perhaps forever, and he plumbed depths hitherto undreamed of. But after the blow came the reaction and a saner grasp of the true importance of her news. He was on fire, yet coldly logical. The white heat of his heart and brain told him that here at last was hope realized, the goal reached, the attainment of certainty. The knowledge that he could not bear to lose her told him that he loved, and that his love was worthy of a declaration. He breathed a prayer of thankfulness.