“Yes,” she answered rather gloomily. “Only three lines. I have brought it in my pocket so that you may see,” and producing a crumpled envelope, she handed it to me.
Striking a vesta I opened the note and read the few words it contained, written hurriedly in pencil; the message ran: “I cannot return yet, but tell no one you have heard from me. I still love you, darling, better than my life. Jack.” Then I looked at the postmark, and found it had been posted at Bardonnechia, an obscure village on the Italian frontier.
“He reassures you,” I said, after a moment’s silence. “We must wait.”
“Wait,” she echoed, sadly. “We can do nothing else. It is strange that he desires his absence to be concealed,” she continued. “Curiously enough only this morning a well-dressed man called just as I was going to the meet and saw me privately. He gave his name as Captain Allen, of Jack’s regiment, and said he had come from London to ask me his address, as he wished to send him a telegram on some important business. I told him I did not know. Then he asked if I had heard from him, and I told him—”
“You told him what?” I gasped, starting up.
“I told him that the letter I received yesterday was posted at Bardonnechia.”
I sank back upon the seat, nerveless, paralysed.
“Did he not tell you that if you loved him you must remain silent?” I demanded, fiercely. “Don’t you know what you’ve done?”
“No,” she gasped, alarmed. “What—what have I done? Tell me. What will happen?”
But I knew I had nearly betrayed myself, and quickly recovering my self-possession, said: