“If I’d a known that, I’d a wrung his leg off,” said he.
“But when was it? This morning?”
“No, last night.”
Last night! Then the letter would already have reached Packworth, and long before Jack and his father arrived the happiness of her life would have been dashed.
It seemed no use attempting anything. I determined, however, to send a telegram to meet Jack on his arrival, so as to warn him, in case the letter should still be undelivered. I worded it carefully, for fear it might be opened before Jack arrived.
“Hawkesbury did hear our talk. He told Masham, who has written a letter to some one we both care for.”
This I flattered myself was sufficiently unintelligible to any one but Jack.
I spent the rest of the evening in fighting against the tumult of my own feelings. My impulse had been to rush at once to Hawkesbury and charge him with his infamy. But what good would that do? And who was I, to prefer such a charge against another? My next was to find out Masham, and take some desperate revenge on him. But, after all, my only authority was Billy’s report of a conversation overheard by him; and, though it might be all true, I had no right, I felt, without further proof, even if then, to do anything.
On the whole, I came to the conclusion I had better go to bed, which I did. But whether I slept or not the reader may guess.