I
was at the Joyselles' yesterday, and they told me that the danger is
over. I am so glad, poor old girl. How are you? And how is Brigit? I
hope she will believe you when you tell her about that day after I saw
her in Tite Street. I told her that you did not believe me and went for
me, but she wouldn't listen to me, and I don't blame her. I'm pretty
bad. I shan't last long, I think. Heart's getting bad, too. May I come
down and see you some time? Joyselle tells me the wedding is to be next
month----"
Brigit crushed the letter violently in her hand and threw it down, her
face distorted with anger.
"Poor old Gerald," commented her mother absently. After a pause she
turned. "Brigit--I give you my sacred word of honour that I did not
believe him that day. I never doubted you for a second. But he was so
queer--so ill--that I was alarmed, and was trying to comfort him when
you came in.
"Do you believe me?" she added, after a long pause.
Brigit, who stood by the window, nodded without turning.
"Oh, yes, I believe you," she said indifferently.
Then, before her mother could again speak, the girl left the room.
On her own table she found another letter, and to her surprise
recognised Carron's writing in the address.
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