I found Miss Hawthorne rewriting a copy of my address.
“I will save you the trouble, Miss Hawthorne,” I said bitterly, and Heaven knows my heart was at a dead ache, “and I will send a copy to Mr. Melton.”
She flushed, the hot blood mounting over her little ears. “You do me a cruel injustice, Mr. Ormonde,” she replied. “Read that!” contemptuously flinging me an open letter across the table.
“I do not wish to pry into Mr. Melton’s secrets.”
“That letter is not from Mr. Melton. I never received one from him in my life, nor do I care to receive one; but since you will not read this letter, you shall hear its contents.”
She read as follows in a pained voice:
My Dear Mrs. Ormonde:
As the coming man is so busy, and is probably at the other side of the county, I write to you to ask you to send me a copy of his address as soon as ever you can. We are all alive here, and Victory is within our grasp. Always yours,
Peter Heffernan.
“Now, Mr. Ormonde, may I ask you if it was generous of you to—”