“Oh yes, Mr. Bingham! I will see to it. It is only for two or three days you say.”
The next day there was no letter from Frank Maynard, nor was there on the following morning; but when Fred Bingham called at three o'clock there was a letter, the handwriting of which he at once recognised.
“Ah! this is the letter, James. I am very glad I have stopped it, especially as I expect to see the man this evening and to put a stop to his annoying my uncle. Here is what I promised you, James. I need not tell you to say nothing about it, for my uncle would not be pleased if he knew I was interfering in his affairs even for his own good.”
“You may be sure I won't say a word, sir, I do think master has been expecting the letter, for he has been very anxious about letters the last day or two, and savage, sir, that savage that one daren't as much as look at him. If he goes on like this I must make a change, sir. I can't stand it much longer.”
“I dare say he will be better, James, when, this annoyance is removed. I will go into the dining-room for a few minutes, I have a letter to write which I forgot before I started.”
Once in the dining-room Fred Bingham took the inkstand and writing materials from the side-table, and then produced from a large pocket-book an envelope upon which he had written Frank Maynard's name and address in a very accurate imitation of the peculiar hand of Captain Bradshaw. In this he enclosed Frank's letter, and, lighting the taper, sealed it with a small seal which was in the drawer of the inkstand, and which bore the three-fingered hand, the crest of the Bradshaws.
“There,” he said, with his unpleasant smile, “if that won't keep you apart, Master Frank, I am mistaken; you are a very fine fellow, no doubt, and Alice Heathcote liked you better than she did me; but I don't think you will have much reason to boast in the end. Now, if the old man does but go away for the winter, as he talks about, there is no fear of their coming together again, and he is too proud and too passionate, and Frank is too hot-headed and mighty ever to condescend to make the first advances. I don't think the old boy can live long.”
So, putting on his hat he went out, down into Knightsbridge and up the hill, dropping the letter into the post-office at the corner of Wilton Place. Then he sauntered on, smiling pleasantly as he went, and meditating not unflattering thoughts of himself.