“No, Jeffreys—John Jeffreys.”
Again he turned over the bundle, almost carelessly. At length he extracted a letter, which he tossed onto the counter.
“There you are, my beauty,” said he.
Jeffreys, heeding nothing except that it was addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand, seized the missive and hastened from the office.
At the first shop window he stood and tore it open.
“My dear Jeffreys,—I was glad to hear from you, although your letter gave me great pain. It would have been wiser in you to return here, whatever your circumstances might be; wiser still would it have been had you never run away. But I do not write now to reproach you. You have suffered enough, I know. I write to tell you of Forrester.”
Jeffreys gave a gasp for breath before he dare read on.
“The poor fellow has made a temporary rally, but the doctors by no means consider him out of danger. Should he recover, which I fear is hardly probable, I grieve to say the injuries he has received would leave him a cripple for life. There is an injury to the spine and partial paralysis, which, at the best, would necessitate his lying constantly on his back, and thus being dependent entirely on others. If he can bear it, he is to be removed to his home in a day or two. He has asked about you, and on my telling him that I was writing to you, said, ‘Tell him I know it was only an accident.’ I am sure that this letter will grieve you; I wish I could say anything which will help you. May God in His mercy bring good to us all out of this sorrow! As for yourself, I hope that your guardian’s resentment will be short-lived, and that you will let me hear of your welfare. Count on me as a friend, in spite of all.
“Yours always,—
“T. Frampton.”