It was a letter. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. “You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. You jumped, and I think that you left me. John, he was between me and the door. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. She saw his purpose and his doubt hesitated also, and then went to him, took his coat lapels, and kissed him on the cheek. The doctor expected her to seize upon the subtle inference that there was something furtive, even criminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation upon humanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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