“God bless you, Perry,” breathed Joan. “It’s—it’s been like heaven.
You—you _will_ be there, dear?”
Peregrine smiled back.
“Buck up, my lady.”
An instant later the girl was lost in the press.
* * * * *
Some thirty-six hours had gone by.
Joan Purchase Atlee was nearing Biarritz, Peregrine was in a car heading
for Havre, and Mrs. Carey Below was sitting in a Paris hotel, staring
upon a letter, with her eyes aflame and her underlip caught in her
teeth.
A second letter lay on the floor by her side, its single sheet crumpled
as though in wrath.
By your leave, I will straighten it out.
_DEAR MARION,_
_I have decided that we are better apart. If you will write to
Forsyth, saying you accept this decision, he will send you a
cheque for five hundred pounds, and, so long as you do not seek
to avoid this decision, on application to Forsyth, one thousand
pounds will be paid to you every quarter._
_PEREGRINE._
The second letter, though not the envelope, was in the same handwriting.
Mrs. Below had dictated it—some seven years ago.
_MY DEAR JOAN,_
_This is rather a difficult letter to write, but I have come to
the conclusion that it would be a fatal mistake for us to be
married. We’re friends, I know, but there must be something more
than friendship if marriage is to be a success. Where there is
no true understanding there can never be real happiness. I am
sure that after a little you will see the force of my words and
realize with me that I am taking the wisest, although by no
means the easiest, course in asking you to release me from my
engagement. If I don’t hear from you I shall know that you
agree._
_Yours very sincerely,_
_PEREGRINE CAREY BELOW_.
_P.S.—I think it best for both of us that we should not meet
again, so I am leaving for London to-night._
Mrs. Carey Below stared and stared.
Presently she glanced round, folded the letter swiftly and thrust it
into her bag.
Out of sight, out of mind. . . . Out of sight. . . .
With an effort she wrenched at her thoughts, speaking mechanically to
give her brain a lead.
“So nothing,” she rasped, breathing heavily through her nose, “_nothing_
is sacred to him. This—after seven years. . . .” She raised her voice.
“Pickford!”
But Pickford was in a taxi, heading for the Gare du Nord.