“This is rank treason,” he said; “but I admire your sentiments.”
“But don’t agree with them?”
“We must each of us act according to our lights,” he answered more gravely than he intended.
She held out her hand.
“If you will excuse me, I will say goodbye. The car will be ready for you, and, I hope, we shall meet again in happier circumstances,” and she gave a pathetic little smile.
When she had gone, he stood where he was.
“What a fool I was to start bandying words with her in her present state. Now for London. You’ve no time for sentiment.”
Chapter IV.
The Missing Letter
Sinclair was sitting at his desk, and his brows were knitted. Before him was a letter.
He read it over again for the third time, and then told the clock that he was damned. Then he picked up the envelope, and examined it closely.