Aunt Anne, leaning over the cart, saw, as he pulled out the letter with the French stamps on it for her, that there was another beneath, directed, in an illiterate-looking hand, to “A. Wimple, Esq.,” but it was a woman’s writing and it had the Liphook postmark. Her eyes flashed; she could hardly make her voice steady as she said— “I see you have one there for Mr. Wimple; you will find him at the cottage.” Then she drove on. She looked at her own letter, a little bewildered. “It is not from Walter or Florence,” she said, “yet I know the handwriting.” She gazed vacantly at the hedges again, while Peter the pony, urged by arguments from the whip, went on more swiftly towards the station. Lucas’s remarks fell unheeded on her ears. Something was tightening round her heart that made her cheeks burn with a fire they had not felt for long years past. “I think we’ll have more rain—them clouds over there seem like it,” the man said, wondering why she was so silent, for she generally liked a chat with him. “Maybe she wanted to drive him herself,” he thought; “I forgot to offer her the reins, and it’s no good changing now, we are so near the station. The train’s signalled,” he said, as they pulled up; “but you are in plenty of time.” “I calculated that I should have sufficient time,” she answered. “Would you like me to meet you this afternoon? I will, if you tell me what train you are coming down by.” She was silent for a minute, then, suddenly, she seemed to find courage. “I shall leave London by the four thirty train,” she said. “It is due at Witley at a quarter to six, and I shall expect to find you there.” She walked into the station, with almost a hunted look.