The postmark
told him that the envelope belonged to a letter he had written four
days ago.
Then he found what she had put in the envelope before she folded it.
It was the return half of a railway ticket, from London to Rodchurch
Road--he turned it in his fingers and examined the date on the back of
it.
"Last Friday, my lady. Not to-day by any means--and not Manninglea
Cross. Issued at Rodchurch Road o' Friday last--the day you come up to
London."
"Yes, Will, I won't pretend any more."
She had put her arms round his legs and lifted herself to a kneeling
position. "I _did_ come Friday. But don't be angry with me. Don't fly
out at me, and I--I'll explain everything."
"May I make so bold 's t'a' ask _why_ you come, without my permission
begged for nor given?"
His voice was terrible to hear, so deep and yet so harsh, and
vibrating with such implacable wrath.
"Will, I did it for your sake. I thought if I asked permission, you'd
say no. So I dared to do it myself--feeling certain as life that you
were done for if no help came--and I thought it was my duty to bring
you the help if I could."
"Go on. I'm listening, an' I'm thinking all the time."
"I thought--Auntie thought so too--she advised it--that Mr.
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