" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope.
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