“I wonder!” she sighed.
The next morning after breakfast Bret sat down to write the ten-thousand-dollar check. “It makes an awful hole in my back account,” he said, “but it heals a bigger one in my heart.”
Just then a note was brought to the door. When he opened it the “I O U” torn into small bits fell into his hands from a sheet of letter-paper containing these words:
My dear Mr. Winfield,—Please find inclosed a little wedding-present for your charming bride. One of the unavoidable hazards of the manager’s life is the fatal curiosity of actresses concerning the experiment of marriage. Please tell Miss Kemble—I should say Mrs. Winfield—that no fear of inconveniencing me must disturb her honeymoon. Miss Dulcie Ormerod will step into her vacant shoes and fill them nicely. I cannot return her contract, as it is in my safe in New York. I will leave it there until she feels that her vacation is over, when I shall be glad to renew it. The clever little lady insisted on cutting out the two weeks’ clause in her contract with me—I wonder if she left it in yours.
With all felicitation, I am, dear Mr. and Mrs. Winfield,
Faithfully yours,
Henry Reben.
Bret Winfield, Esq.
Sheila read the ironic words across Bret’s arm. She clung to it as to a spar of rescue and laughed. “I’ll never go back.”