Once more she went up-stairs. She put on her bonnet and cloak; she covered her flushed face with a thick veil; and without saying a word to any of her servants, she left the house, and made the best of her way to the nearest cabstand.
Meantime, Mr Maggleby had been driven to his place of business in Mincing Lane. He entered his office, and sat down as if dazed, in his private room. Hearing of his principal’s unexpected arrival, the head-clerk, Mr John Doddard, almost immediately appeared. He too was scared and breathless.
‘Read, sir, read!’ he gasped as he thrust an open letter into Mr Maggleby’s hand.
Mr Maggleby mechanically took the letter, and read aloud as follows:
On board S.S. Camel, off Plymouth, Tuesday.
Dear Mr Doddard—As you are probably not expecting me, I send a line ashore to let you know that I hope to return in time to be at business at the usual hour on Thursday. Please take care that there is a good fire in my private room, as a visit to Demerara always, as you know, renders me particularly sensitive to cold and damp. I am writing to Mr Maggleby. We have had a capital voyage so far, but the weather in the Channel threatens to be rather dirty. I shall land at Gravesend; and if you can find out when the Camel is likely to be there, you may send down some one to meet me.—Yours faithfully,
Solomon Pudster.
‘I knew it!’ ejaculated Mr Maggleby. ‘I have just received the letter that he speaks of.’
‘What does it all mean?’ asked Mr Doddard. ‘I seem to be dreaming, sir. We buried poor Mr Pudster eight months ago, didn’t we?’
‘So I thought,’ murmured Mr Maggleby vaguely. ‘But this letter is certainly in his handwriting. And look at the post-mark. There it is, as plain as possible: “Plymouth, Mar. 22, 1868.” That was yesterday; and to-day is Wednesday, March 23d.—Just read my letter, Mr Doddard!’ and he pulled from his pocket a missive, which he handed to his clerk.