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Nine
I
It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her
expensive peasant dress, felt happy.
The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a
good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been
satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post
arrived.
There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitations
—nothing of any special interest.
David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the
outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters.
Dear Mr. Hunter,
I think it is best to approach you rather than your sister, Mrs. Cloade,” in
case the contents of this letter might come as somewhat of a shock to her. Briefly,
I have news of Captain Robert Underhay, which she may be glad to hear. I am
staying at the Stag and if you will call there this evening, I shall be pleased to go
into the matter with you.
Yours faithfully,
Enoch Arden
A strangled sound came from David’s throat. Rosaleen looked up smiling, then her face changed
to an expression of alarm.
“David—David—what is it?”
Mutely he held out the letter to her. She took it and read it.
“But—David—I don’t understand—what does it mean?”
“You can read, can’t you?”
She glanced up at him timorously.
“David—does it mean—what are we going to do?”
He was frowning—planning rapidly in his quick far-seeing mind.
“It’s all right, Rosaleen, no need to be worried. I’ll deal with it—”
“But does it mean that—”
“Don’t worry, my dear girl. Leave it to me. Listen, this is what you’ve got to do. Pack a
bag at once and go up to London. Go to the flat — and stay there until you hear from me?
Understand?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I understand, but David—”
“Just do as I say, Rosaleen.” He smiled at her. He was kindly, reassuring. “Go and pack.
I’ll drive you to the station. You can catch the 10:32. Tell the porter at the flats that you don’t
want to see any one. If any one calls and asks for you, he’s to say you’re out of town. Give him
a quid. Understand? He’s not to let any one up to see you except me.”
“Oh.” Her hands went up to her cheeks. She looked at him with scared lovely eyes.
“It’s all right, Rosaleen — but it’s tricky. You’re not much hand at the tricky stuff.
That’s my lookout. I want you out of the way so that I’ve got a free hand, that’s all.”
“Can’t I stay here, David?”
“No, of course you can’t, Rosaleen. Do have some sense. I’ve got to have a free hand to
deal with this fellow whoever he is—”
“Do you think that it’s—that it’s—”
He said with emphasis:
“I don’t think anything at the moment. The first thing is to get you out of the way. Then I can
find out where we stand. Go on—there’s a good girl, don’t argue.”
She turned and went out of the room.
David frowned down at the letter in his hand.
Very noncommittal — polite — well phrased — might mean anything. It might be genuine
solicitude in an awkward situation. Might be a veiled threat. He conned its phrases over and over
—“I have news of Captain Robert Underhay”…“Best to approach you”…“I shall be
pleased to go into the matter with you…” “Mrs. Cloade.” Damn it all, he didn’t like those
inverted commas—Mrs. Cloade…”
He looked at the signature. Enoch Arden. Something stirred in his mind — some poetical
memory…a line of verse.
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