Lawford stooped, black and angular, against the door. ‘I am not mad. Oh, I am in the deadliest earnest, Sheila. You must get the letter, if only for your own peace of mind.’ He heard his wife hesitate as she turned. He heard a sob. And once more he waited.
‘I have brought the letter,’ came the low toneless voice again.
‘Have you opened it?’
There was a rustle of paper. ‘Are the letters there underlined three times—“Y.S.O.A.”?’
‘The letters are there.’
‘And the date of the month is underneath, “April 3rd.” No one else in the whole world, living or dead, could know of this but ourselves, Sheila?’
‘Will you please open the door?’
‘No one?’
‘I suppose not—no one.’
‘Then come in.’ He unlocked the door and opened it. A dark, rather handsome woman, with sleek hair, in a silk dress of a dark rich colour entered. Lawford closed the door. But his face was in shadow. He had still a moment’s respite.