At that instant, they heard a tap at the door, and the landlord, carrying a few letters on a salver, entered the room. Sara pulled down her veil--a foolish action, which she regretted a moment later. Orange thanked the man for the letters and threw them on the table. The landlord, with a studied air of discretion, which was the more insulting for its very slyness, went, half on tiptoe, out. "Does he always bring your letters upstairs?" she asked. "As a rule--no," said Orange. "Then he came on purpose! He wanted to see me--what impudence! I am beginning to realise what one has to expect if one--if one takes an unconventional step." Her voice failed, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Then she covered her face with her hands. "Every courageous--every disinterested act is unconventional," said Robert; "you are tired out--that's all." "You see," she answered, with a note of harsh sadness in her voice, "I have had a strange day. The scene with Beauclerk was a great strain. I feel a kind of apprehensiveness and terror--yes, terror, which I cannot describe. It may be my nerves, it may be fancy. But I am too conscious of being alive. Every minute seems vital. Every sound is acute. This day has been one long over-emphasis. Look at my hand: how it trembles! Beauclerk called me a witch. Certainly, I am more sensitive to impressions than most people." "One of these letters is from Reckage. It is written on a sheet of your own note-paper." She dried her eyes, and looked at him with exultation, astonishment, and a certain incredulity. "Then he must have listened to me. He posted it, after all, when he left the house. He is always impulsive. I remember now--that I saw him give something to the groom. Do read what he says." The letter, scrawled hastily on the pale lilac note-paper affected by Sara and bearing her monogram, ran as follows:--