His rage against Letty, just
because of her faithfulness, had cast him an easy prey into the
arms of the clinging Sepia.
And now what more could Mary do? Just one thing was left: Mr.
Redmain could satisfy Mr. Wardour of the fact he would not hear
from her!--so, at least, thought Mary yet. If Mr. Redmain would
take the trouble to speak to him, Mr. Wardour must be convinced!
However true might be what Mr. Wardour had said about Mr.
Redmain, fact remained fact about Sepia!
She sat down and wrote the following letter:
"Sir: I hardly know how to address you without seeming to take a
liberty; at the same time I can not help hoping you trust me
enough to believe that I would not venture such a request as I am
about to make, without good reason. Should you kindly judge me
not to presume, and should you be well enough in health, which I
fear may not be the case, would you mind coming to see me here in
my shop? I think you must know it--it used to be Turnbull and
Marston--the Marston was my father. You will see my name over the
door. Any hour from morning to night will do for me; only please
let it be as soon as you can make it convenient.
"I am, sir,
"Your humble and grateful servant,
"MARY MARSTON"
"What the deuce is she grateful to me for?" grumbled Mr. Redmain
when he read it. "I never did anything for her! By Jove, the
gypsy herself wouldn't let me! I vow she's got more brains of her
own than any half-dozen women I ever had to do with before!"
The least thing bearing the look of plot, or intrigue, or secret
to be discovered or heard, was enough for Mr.
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