'With whom else?' sternly replied the commander, seating himself before his favourite fried sole, and beginning a breakfast that scarcely promised its usual heartiness.
'What can be done, sir, to save her?'
'Don't you know, ma'm,' answered the commander, 'it has been said, that the virtue that needs a sentinel is not worth guarding? What would you do to save her? She's ahead of us by ten or eleven hours. The heart of ice had no damned right to leave me without a single farewell or word of her intention.'
'I can't believe that, sir. I can't believe she'd go off without leaving a note. I'll make another search.'
She stumped upstairs. The commander ate his fish, often looking hard out of the window. Keen distress worked in his bosom. But his face of iron masked it. She had left no letter, he thought to himself. She would have no talent at kindness in unkindness. She must sheath her knife to the hilt to make the stroke effectual to her. As he thought thus, Mrs. Dove entered bearing a note. Her face had lost its working wrinkles of horror; she entered with something of gaiety.
'I've found this behind the dressing-table, where it had been blown down by the draught from the open window. I knew—I knew, dear heart, she wouldn't go away without saying good-bye.'
She handed the letter to the commander, who quietly put down his knife and fork, took the letter, and read—
'Commander Conway, R.N.'
He then opened the letter. It was of two folded sheets, with very little in them, and the missive ran thus—
'Dear Father,