“Oh, I'm all right,” said Dunham. “I know about my being hurt. I shall be cautious. Have you written to Miss Hibbard? I hope you haven't!” “Yes, I have,” replied Staniford. “But I haven't sent the letter,” he added, in answer to Dunham's look of distress. “I thought you were going to pull through, in spite of the doctor,--he's wanted to bleed you, and I could hardly keep his lancet out of you,--and so I wrote, mentioning the accident and announcing your complete restoration. The letter merely needs dating and sealing. I'll look it up and have it posted.” He began a search in the pockets of his coat, and then went to his portfolio. “What day is this?” asked Dunham. “Friday,” said Staniford, rummaging his portfolio. “Have you been in Venice?” “Look here, Dunham! If you begin in that way, I can't talk to you. It shows that you're still out of your head. How could I have been in Venice?” “But Miss Blood; the Aroostook--” “Miss Blood went to Venice with her uncle last Saturday. The Aroostook is here in Trieste. The captain has just gone away. He's stood watch and watch with me, while you were off on business.” “But didn't you go to Venice on Monday?” “Well, hardly,” answered Staniford. “No, you stayed with me,--I see,” said Dunham. “Of course, I wrote to her at once,” said Staniford, huskily, “and explained the matter as well as I could without making an ado about it. But now you stop, Dunham. If you excite yourself, there'll be the deuce to pay again.” “I'm not excited,” said Dunham, “but I can't help thinking how disappointed--But of course you've heard from her?” “Well, there's hardly time, yet,” said Staniford, evasively. “Why, yes, there is. Perhaps your letter miscarried.” “Don't!” cried Staniford, in a hollow under-voice, which he broke through to add, “Go to sleep, now, Dunham, or keep quiet, somehow.” Dunham was silent for a while, and Staniford continued his search, which he ended by taking the portfolio by one corner, and shaking its contents out on the table. “I don't seem to find it; but I've put it away somewhere. I'll get it.” He went to another coat, that hung on the back of a chair, and fumbled in its pockets. “Hello! Here are those letters they brought me from the post-office Saturday night,--Murray's, and Stanton's, and that bore Farrington's. I forgot all about them.” He ran the unopened letters over in his hand. “Ah, here's my familiar scrawl--” He stopped suddenly, and walked away to the window, where he stood with his back to Dunham. “Staniford! What is it?” “It's--it's my letter to _her_” said Staniford, without looking round. “Your letter to Miss Blood--not gone?” Staniford, with his face still from him, silently nodded. “Oh!” moaned Dunham, in self-forgetful compassion. “How could it have happened?”