“By the time you read this we shall be far away. With my sincere hopes for your perfect recovery, I am, sir, yours truly,
“George Haldane.
“P.S.—My wife knows nothing of your dream, in any of its phenomena. Some day, perhaps, I shall enlighten her, but not yet. She sends you her best wishes.”
That was all Santley read and re-read in amazement, not quite comprehending, yet dimly guessing that there had been some strange mystery. At last, relieved by the thought that all his guilty agony had perhaps been a dream indeed, he sunk back upon the pillow of his armchair, and wept aloud.
That same afternoon, as he sat looking at his loving nurse, he questioned her concerning Edith. It was the first time, since his recovery, that he had mentioned her name.
“Where is she? Have they heard from her? Is she well?”
“She is well, I believe,” replied Miss Santley. “Just after you fell ill, her aunt heard from her, and went away to join her in London. They are there together now.”
“Do you know their address?”
“Yes; I heard from Rachel that they are staying at the Golden Cross Hotel, near the station.”
In the evening, Santley insisted on having pen, ink, and paper. His sister begged him not to fatigue himself by writing, but he was determined.