“It's—it's my letter to her” said Staniford, without looking round.
“Your letter to Miss Blood—not gone?” Staniford, with his face still from him, silently nodded. “Oh!” moaned Dunham, in self-forgetful compassion. “How could it have happened?”
“I see perfectly well,” said the other, quietly, but he looked round at Dunham with a face that was haggard. “I sent it out to be posted by the portier, and he got it mixed up with these letters for me, and brought it back.”
The young men were both silent, but the tears stood in Dunham's eyes. “If it hadn't been for me, it wouldn't have happened,” he said.
“No,” gently retorted Staniford, “if it hadn't been for me, it wouldn't have happened. I made you come from Messina with me, when you wanted to go on to Naples with those people; if I'd had any sense, I should have spoken fully to her before we parted; and it was I who sent you to see if she were on the steamer, when you fell and hurt yourself. I know who's to blame, Dunham. What day did I tell you this was?”
“Friday.”
“A week! And I told her to expect me Monday afternoon. A week without a word or a sign of any kind! Well, I might as well take passage in the Aroostook, and go back to Boston again.”
“Why, no!” cried Dunham, “you must take the first train to Venice. Don't lose an instant. You can explain everything as soon as you see her.”
Staniford shook his head. “If all her life had been different, if she were a woman of the world, it would be different; she would know how to account for some little misgivings on my part; but as it is she wouldn't know how to account for even the appearance of them. What she must have suffered all this week—I can't think of it!” He sat down and turned his face away. Presently he sprang up again. “But I'm going, Dunham. I guess you won't die now; but you may die if you like. I would go over your dead body!”
“Now you are talking sense,” said Dunham.