“Might I have one word with you alone?”
“I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter,” cried her father angrily.
She looked at me helplessly. “What can I do?”
“The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm if I discuss them here,” said I. “I should have preferred privacy, but if your father will not allow it, he must share the deliberations.” Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man’s pocket. “It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?”
“I see no reason for mystery,” she answered. “We were engaged to be married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy’s uncle, who is very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married against his wish. There was no other reason.”
“You could have told us,” growled Mr. Bellamy.
“So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy.”
“I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station.”
“It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you. As to this appointment’’—she fumbled in her dress and produced a crumpled note—“it was in answer to this.”
“Dearest,” ran the message: “The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.—F. M.”
“Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night.”
