“Hullo, there’s the postman!” said Horace, who had been looking from the window; “ten to one there’s a line from Harker.”
And he flew down the stairs, just in time to see the servant-girl take a letter from the box and put it in her pocket.
“None for us?” said he.
The girl, who till this moment was not aware of his presence, turned round and coloured very violently, but said nothing.
“Show me the letter you put into your pocket just now,” said Horace, who had had experience before now in predicaments of this kind.
The girl made no reply, but tried to go back to the kitchen. Horace, however, stopped her.
“Be quick!” said he. “You’ve a letter for me in your pocket, and if I don’t have it before I count twenty I’ll give you in charge;” and he proceeded to count.
Before he had reached ten the girl broke out into tears, and took from her pocket not only the letter in question, but three or four others.
“There you are; that’s all of them. I’ve done with it!” sobbed she.
Horace glanced over them in bewilderment. One was in Reginald’s writing, written three weeks ago; two were from himself to his mother, written last week, and the last was from Harker, written yesterday.