"My letters have just come in, and I thought I saw a foreign postmark." He slipped back into the hall, brought in several letters, selected one, and gave it to Mary, "This is for you, from Marseilles." He then retired to his study, and without the least agitation or the least loss of time returned with a book of telegraph forms.
Meanwhile Mary tore the letter open, and read it eagerly to John Baker.
"GRAND HOTEL, NOAILLES, MARSEILLES, _May_ 16.
"MY OWN DEAR LOVE,--I have vowed that I will not write again to tempt you to anything you think wrong; but it looks like quarrelling to hide my address from you.

Only I do beg of you, as the only kindness you can do me now, never to let it be known by any living creature at Clifford Hall.
"Yours till death, WALTER." Mr.Bartley entered with the telegraph forms, and said to Mary, sharply, "Where is he ?" Mary told him.

"Well, write him a telegram.

It shall be at the railway in half an hour, at Marseilles theoretically in one hour, practically in four." Mary sat down and wrote her telegram: "Pray come to Clifford Hall.

Your father is dangerously ill." "Show it to me," said Bartley.