Maurice nodded. "The Cuthberts are giving a garden-party, and I believe Aunt Mary said some of us might stroll over. But don't you bother about it, if you've made other arrangements." He brought out the latter remark with a kind of suggestive leer, that told me plainly he was thinking of Lady Baradell.
"Thanks," I said coolly. "You're an ideal host, Maurice." And leaving him to chew over this compliment at his leisure, I strolled across the street in the direction of the Plough.
I found Billy sitting alone in the bar parlour reading the morning paper, and taking an occasional pull at a large tankard of ale.
"I hope I'm not interrupting your breakfast, Billy," I said.
He jumped up smiling, and flung down the paper on the seat.
"I guessed you'd be over early," he said.
"Then you guessed more than I did," I retorted. "Why this confidence?"
He walked round behind the bar, and taking down an envelope which was sitting up among the bottles, tossed it across to me.
"Here's your love letter, my son," he said. "I told the barmaid you'd be in for it this morning."
I picked it up, remembering with a sudden thrill of pleasure my message to Mercia.