The anger that had made her tear up Severn's letter had spent itself, and for over an hour we talked together very quietly about Terry and what might happen. She, like June, was fearful that the blow would be too much for him. I tried to reassure her by saying that lately there had been distinct signs of the beginnings of recovery, but that seemed to make her more apprehensive than ever. "To hit a man when he's down isn't as bad as to hit him when he's just coming up," she said. And then there was the strain of the fighting campaign that Geoffrey was planning for him--how would he stand that? How _would_ he? I wondered myself. I wondered how soon I should hear the result of June's momentous interview, and what degree of catastrophe there would be to learn.... And then, at the moment of deepest gloom, there came a sharp knock on my outer door. I went, and found one of the End House chauffeurs with a letter in his hand. I thought immediately of Severn--that the letter was some urgent summons from him, either to me or to Helen. Yet he would have telephoned if anything had gone seriously amiss. A dozen vague alternative conjectures suggested themselves; and all before the man said: "From Miss June, sir. She told me to bring it to you." "Miss June? I thought she was at Hindhead?" "So she is, sir. I drove her down this morning, and she sent me back this evening with the car and this letter." "She's not coming back herself, then?" "Not to-night, at any rate, sir. She's staying at the hotel." "I see...." But I didn't see. I stood under the light in my small lobby and tore open the envelope. The letter was pencilled and very short. Just this: "DEAR HILTON,--The most extraordinary thing has happened, and I want you to get down here to-morrow morning if you possibly can. I'll meet the 10.15 at Haslemere. I don't think it's any use my trying to write any details, but I'll tell you this much to reassure you--it's good news. At least _I_ think it is. Do come to-morrow. "JUNE." Helen entered from my sitting-room, and before I had time to think, I said: "It's from June." "June?" she echoed; and then, with what may or may not have been sarcasm, added: "If it isn't _too_ private, may I see it?" I gave it to her, and just for a moment while she was reading I wondered if she were going to treat it as she had done Severn's. But at last she handed it back to me, saying sharply: "It tells us nothing." "Most likely whatever has happened is too complicated to write down," I answered. "Anyhow, June says it's _good_ news." "She says _she_ thinks it's good news." "Which you fear may not be quite the same thing?" "_Fear_?" There was fear in her voice. "I think I fear everything." "Even after June's reassurance?" "June? June doesn't understand--doesn't understand _anything_ in this business. She _couldn't_." "Why not?"