He took the letter. "I will see whether the other is already gone," he mumbled, and disappeared through a side door, into the sorting-room. In a few moments he returned, still holding Diana's letter. His plump face was rather pale, and his hand shook. He laid Diana's letter on the table between them. "I am very sorry, Mrs. Rivers," he said. "I cannot possibly give you back a letter once posted. Were I known to have done such a thing, I should at once be dismissed." Diana paled, and stood very still, considering her next move. "I cannot _give_ you back the letter," said the Postmaster. His eyes met hers; then dropped to the letter lying on the table between them. Then the stars in their courses fought against David, for suddenly Diana understood. This was the letter she wanted, placed within her reach. With a rapid movement she pounced upon it, verified it at a glance; tore it to fragments, and flung them into the flames. "There!" she said. "You did not give it to me, and I have not taken it. It is simply gone--as if it had never been either written or posted." Then she turned to the little fat man near the door, and impulsively held out her hand. "God bless you, my friend!" she said. "I shall never forget what you have done for me this day." "We had best both forget it," whispered the Postmaster, thickly. "If a word of it gets about, I lose my place." "Never you fear!" cried Diana, her buoyancy returning, in her relief and thankfulness. "I trusted you, and you may safely trust me." "Hush," cautioned Mr. Holdsworth, as he opened the door; "we had best both forget." Then, as she passed out: "Your letter was just in time, m'am," he remarked aloud, for the benefit of the clerks in the office. "I placed it in the bag myself." "Thank you," said Diana. "It would have troubled me greatly to have missed this evening's mail. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Holdsworth." * * * * * Leaning back in the motor, on her homeward way, her heart felt sick at the suspense through which she had passed. A reaction set in. The chill of a second winter nipped the bloom of her summer, and the rich fulfilment promised by her golden autumn. The fact that it seemed such an impossible horror that one of her tender love-letters should really reach David, proved to her the fallacy of the consolation she had found in writing them. It placed him far away--and far away forever. He would never know; he would never care; he would never come.... _It meant no more than we intended it should mean_.... _Good-bye, my wife._ * * * * * Tears stole from beneath Diana's closed lids, and rolled silently down her cheeks. _Your wife, who loves you and longs for you!_ But David would never know. It was so true--oh, so true! But David would never know. * * * * *