Hendrie raised his massive head.
"Eh? Oh—my wife." And he turned to his writing again.
Angus abruptly thrust a hand into his breast pocket and turned deliberately to Monica.
"I met Maybee last night—the postmaster," he said, drawing a letter from his pocket. "He handed me this mail, addressed to the post office, for you, Mrs. Hendrie. He asked me to hand it to you. Guess I forgot it this morning. P'raps it's not important—seeing it was addressed to the post office."
For the life of her, Monica could not control the color of her cheeks, and Angus was quick to note their sudden pallor as he stood with the letter held out toward her.
She took it from him with a hand that was unsteady. Neither did this escape the cold eyes of the man.
Monica knew from whom the letter came. She knew without even glancing at the handwriting. Why had Frank written? She had seen him two evenings ago, and settled everything. She was terrified lest her husband should question her.
"Did he do right—sending it up?" There was a subtle irony in the Scot's cold words that did not escape the ears of the millionaire. He looked round.
Without looking in her husband's direction Monica became aware of his interest. With a great effort she pulled herself together.
"Quite right, Mr. Moraine," she said steadily, now smiling in her most gracious manner. "And thank you very much for taking such trouble. It has saved me a journey."