“I’ve got a letter to write,” said Charlie.
“Well, Miss Bellairs, you must come. Who’s to pour it out?”
“I must catch the post, Sir Roger,” answered Dora.
They went into the house together. In the hall they parted.
“You’ll let me know what happens, Mr. Ellerton, won’t you? I’m so interested.”
“And you?”
“Oh—well, perhaps,” and the sallow of her cheeks had turned to a fine dusky red as she ran upstairs.
Thus it happened that a second letter for John Ashforth and a second letter for Mary Travers left Cannes that night.
And if it seems a curious coincidence that Dora and Charlie should meet at Cannes, it can only be answered that they were each of them just as likely to be at Cannes as anywhere else. Besides, who knows that these things are all coincidence?
CHAPTER III. — A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE
On Wednesday the eleventh of April, John Ashforth rose from his bed full of a great and momentous resolution. There is nothing very strange in that, perhaps it is just the time of day when such things come to a man, and, in ordinary cases, they are very prone to disappear with the relics of breakfast. But John was of sterner stuff. He had passed a restless night, tossed to and fro by very disturbing gusts of emotion, and he arose with the firm conviction that if he would escape shipwreck he must secure his bark by immovable anchors while he was, though not in honor, yet in law and fact, free; he could not trust himself. Sorrowfully admitting his weakness, he turned to the true, the right, the heroic remedy.
“I’ll marry Mary to—day fortnight,” said he. “When we are man and wife I shall forget this madness and love her as I used to.”
He went down to breakfast, ate a bit of toast and drank a cup of very strong tea. Presently Mary appeared and greeted him with remarkable
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