Jeffreys’ letter was to Mr Frampton.
“Sir,” he wrote, “I left Bolsover because I could not bear to be there any longer. I did not mean to injure Forrester so awfully, though I was wicked enough to have a spite against him. I am not a murderer, though I am as bad as one. If I could do anything to help Forrester get better I would come, but I should only make everything worse. My guardian has turned me away, and I shall have to find employment. But the housekeeper here, Mrs Jessop, will always know where I am, and send on to me if I am wanted. I should not think of hiding away till I hear that Forrester is better. If he dies I should not care to live, so I should be only too glad to give myself up. I cannot come back to Bolsover now, even if I wanted, as I have only a pound, and my guardian tells me that is all the money I have in the world. Please write and say if Forrester is better. I am too miserable to write more.
“Yours truly,—
“John Jeffreys.”
Having finished this dismal letter, he packed up one or two of his things in a small handbag and descended to the parlour. There he found an ample supper provided for him by the tender-hearted Mrs Jessop, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the “journey” that her master’s ward was about to take. But Jeffreys was not hungry, and the announcement that the meal was there by the “master’s orders” turned him against it.
“I can’t eat anything, thank you,” he said to Mrs Jessop, “you gave me such a good tea only a little while ago.”
“But you’ve a long journey, Master John. Is it a long journey, sir?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I want you to promise to send me on any letter or message that comes, will you?”
“Where to?”
“To the head post-office, here.”