"It is here," said the lawyer, and he spread a parchment on the table.
Hugh glanced hastily over it, and touched a hand-bell. When the maid appeared he told her to go to Mr. Paul, who was thatching in the stack-yard, and say he wished to see him at once. Then he returned to the organ and played a tender air. His touch was both light and strenuous.
"Any news of his daughter?" said Mr. Bonnithorne, sinking his voice to a whisper.
"Whose daughter?" said Hugh, pausing and looking over his shoulder.
"The old man's—Laird Fisher's."
"Strangely enough—yes. A letter came this morning."
Hugh Ritson stopped playing and thrust his hand into an inner pocket. But Mr. Bonnithorne hastened to show that he had no desire to pry into another man's secrets.
"Pray don't trouble. Perhaps you'd rather not—just tell me in a word how things are shaping."
Hugh laughed a little, unfolded a sheet of scented writing-paper, with ornamented border, and began to read:
"'I am writing to thank you very much—' Here," tossing the letter to the lawyer, "read it for yourself." Then he resumed his playing.