“But didn't you go to Venice on Monday?”
“Well, hardly,” answered Staniford.
“No, you stayed with me,—I see,” said Dunham.
“Of course, I wrote to her at once,” said Staniford, huskily, “and explained the matter as well as I could without making an ado about it. But now you stop, Dunham. If you excite yourself, there'll be the deuce to pay again.”
“I'm not excited,” said Dunham, “but I can't help thinking how disappointed—But of course you've heard from her?”
“Well, there's hardly time, yet,” said Staniford, evasively.
“Why, yes, there is. Perhaps your letter miscarried.”
“Don't!” cried Staniford, in a hollow under-voice, which he broke through to add, “Go to sleep, now, Dunham, or keep quiet, somehow.”
Dunham was silent for a while, and Staniford continued his search, which he ended by taking the portfolio by one corner, and shaking its contents out on the table. “I don't seem to find it; but I've put it away somewhere. I'll get it.” He went to another coat, that hung on the back of a chair, and fumbled in its pockets. “Hello! Here are those letters they brought me from the post-office Saturday night,—Murray's, and Stanton's, and that bore Farrington's. I forgot all about them.” He ran the unopened letters over in his hand. “Ah, here's my familiar scrawl—” He stopped suddenly, and walked away to the window, where he stood with his back to Dunham.
“Staniford! What is it?”