"No," he said to himself, "it wouldn't do, under the circumstances. It wouldn't do. We'll have to give that up."
Mr. Ladue deserved no credit for deciding to give that up. It is to be feared that the possibility of evil consequences to his wife, Sarah, played no part in forcing him to that decision. The important thing is that he did so decide. In the short time that remained before dinner, he walked to and fro in his room, thinking hard. He could do that very well when he applied himself to it. At dinner he was unexpectedly pleasant, giving Sally a sense of security that was not at all justified by the event. In that, no doubt, he was doing just what he intended.
That evening, having devoted a certain brief time to thinking to some purpose, he packed his bag and wrote a short note to his wife. It is immaterial what he said in that note, but he ended it with these words: "So you may keep your place, madam, and much good may it do you. In fact, I think that you will have to keep it. You could not give a good deed or a good mortgage without my signature." It seemed an entirely uncalled-for evidence of his ill humor. What had Mrs. Ladue done to deserve it?
In the morning he came to breakfast as usual, and again he was very pleasant. Indeed, he was so pleasant that the fact excited Sally's suspicions. He was not usually so pleasant on the morning after. And when he had gone to his customary train—carrying a bag, Sally noted—she found his note, sealed, and addressed, in her father's well-known scrawling hand, to her mother. She took possession of the note. Of only one thing was she sure and that was that no note written by her father—and sealed—was going to be delivered to her mother; at least, not without advice.
Later she showed the note to Fox; and he, being as uncertain what ought to be done as Sally was, showed it to Dr. Galen. They three decided, much against their will, to see what Mr. Ladue had said.
"For," Dr. Galen observed, "Mrs. Ladue is not in condition to read a note of any kind. She will not be in that condition for a week, at least. It seems to me, Sally, that you should know what your father says, especially in view of the circumstances. I advise you to open it."
"You do it," said Sally.
So the doctor did it. "Of course," he remarked, as he slid the blade of his knife under the flap, "if, on glancing at it, I see that it is improper for me to read, I shall not read it. But if, as I fear—"
He was reading it. "The cur!" he muttered, as he finished. He handed it to Fox. "You read it, Mr. Sanderson."
Fox read it and chuckled. "I ought not to laugh," he explained, "but it is so—so futile. Delivery to Mrs. Ladue seems out of the question. And, Sally," he went on, "you shall see this if you want to, but I wish that you would not want to. Your father has gone, apparently."