“I did, miss. I thought it was better I should stay than you.”
“I—I don’t understand you, miss,” I stammered.
“I stayed here,” said Miss Hamlin, looking at the wall, “because I believed that Mr Fraser would come to pay his respects, and I desired to see him.”
“And—and did he come?”
“He did come, miss—soon after daybreak. I had expected that, and was dressed to receive him. He desired his most humble thanks to you for all your kindness to him.”
“And that was all, miss?”
“That was all, miss. I refused to charge myself with any more.”
“But did he purpose saying more? That message—What have you there, miss?” I had discerned a slip of paper that had catched in the robings of her gown, and seized it. It was part of a torn letter, and there was “To Mrs Sylvia Freyne” wrote upon it.
“Oh, dear! I thought I had got rid of it all,” says Miss Hamlin, with the calmest air in the world.
“You destroyed Mr Fraser’s letter to me, miss?”