There was the entry: “Felix Sweetsir. Paid 500 pounds. Note numbered, N 8, 70564; dated 15th May, 1875.”
Moody took from his waistcoat pocket his own memorandum of the number of the lost bank-note. “Read it Isabel,” he said. “I won’t trust my memory.”
She read it. The number and date of the note entered in the pocketbook exactly corresponded with the number and date of the note that Lady Lydiard had placed in her letter.
Moody handed the pocketbook to Isabel. “There is the proof of your innocence,” he said, “thanks to the dog! Will you write and tell Mr. Hardyman what has happened?” he asked, with his head down and his eyes on the ground.
She answered him, with the bright color suddenly flowing over her face.
“You shall write to him,” she said, “when the time comes.”
“What time?” he asked.
She threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom.
“The time,” she whispered, “when I am your wife.”
A low growl from Tommie reminded them that he too had some claim to be noticed.