The envelope was addressed most queerly. The writing was large and sprawling. The first letter of the address was a big “A.” The second was an “M.” The third was a “W.” The letter was obviously from foreign parts, for the address ended “Angleterre” and Annie knew that meant “England” in a foreign tongue. Thus—
A.M.W. Marble,
53 Malcolm Road,
Dulwich,
Londres,
Angleterre.
Annie looked at the envelope a long time. Clearly the A and the M referred to her—was she not Ann Mary Marble? The W and the absence of any “Mrs.” bothered her. But it might be usual in letters from abroad to leave out the “Mrs.” and being from abroad it might contain news about Winnie just as much as if it had been posted in England. Annie opened it, and took out the letter. It took several seconds for the import of the first few words to pierce home to her, but as soon as she had grasped their meaning she sank back half fainting in her chair. The letter was in English, and it began “My dearest, darling Will.”
Recovering herself, Annie read the remainder of the letter. She could not understand some of it—the cruel satire of it was beyond her, dulled as her mind was by her fever, and what she did understand left her heartbroken. All through the letter the writer addressed Will in terms of the most flamboyant affection; it made some reference which she did not understand to her, Annie, and it ended by asking for money—“The same as you sent me before, darling.”
Annie sat still, the letter crumpled up in her hand. There was no address on the letter, and the signature was rather illegible and consisted of a French word. But she knew from whom the letter came. It might have been instinct, or it might have been recognition of the style, but she knew. The tears which might have helped her were denied her by the fever. All she could do was to sit and think distortedly over everything. So Will did not love her, after all her dreams and hopes. Instead, he was writing to this Frenchwoman, and sending her money. All this tenderness of his, and the passion he had shown a little while back—just after she had gone, Annie realized with a sob in her throat—were mere pretences. With strange prescience she guessed that it was to keep her in a good temper when he found that she knew about his secret. A half-formed resolution rose in the maelstrom of her thoughts that she would betray him at the first opportunity, but she put it aside unconsidered. She loved him too much. Her heart was broken, and she was very, very unhappy.
She sat there alone, for what seemed like hours.
Later came Marble, but she roused herself at the sound of the key in the door sufficiently to thrust the letter into the bosom of her dress, and when he came to ask how she was she managed to gasp out “I think I’m ill. Oh—” Then she fell forward in the chair. She was ill, very ill. Marble helped her up to bed, to the big gilt bed where the cupids climbed eternally, with its lavish canopy-rail and bulging ornament. But when she had recovered sufficiently to undress she thrust the letter into her little private drawer before calling to him in her cracked, fevered voice for his help.
Next day she was worse. Marble bent over her anxiously as she lay there in the gaudy bed. She tossed about, from side to side, and she hardly knew him. There were only those two in the house, and he was worried. Worried to death. Of sick nursing he knew nothing. There was not even a clinical thermometer in the house. If she were to die—! But he refused to consider her dying. There would be one fewer in the secret, it is true, but the disadvantages would be overwhelming. And there would be questions asked if she were to die without receiving medical attention. Come what might, he must fetch a doctor. He must bring a stranger into his house, the house that he guarded so urgently. There was no help for it, no help for it at all. He saw that she had all his intelligence could suggest that she might want, and then slipped away quietly downstairs and out to where the nearest brass plate hung at a gate. A white-capped maidservant took his message and told him that the doctor would be round shortly.
Dr. Atkinson was a thin rat of a man, with sandy hair and eyebrows, neither young nor old, with a keen glance behind his pince-nez. He felt her pulse, took her temperature; he noticed her troubled breathing and the way she tossed and turned in the bed. She was nearly delirious: indeed, her speech was confused, and twice she muttered something that he just did not catch. He turned and looked keenly at Marble.
“Who’s looking after her?” he asked.
“I am,” said Marble—a trifle sullenly, Atkinson thought, later.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. My daughter’s—away at present.”
“Well, you’d better get somebody in. Some neighbour or somebody. She’ll need careful attention if we’re to avoid pneumonia.”
Marble looked at him blankly. Get somebody in? Have someone else in the house, poking and prying about? And Annie, there, nearly delirious! Marble had caught a word or two of what she had muttered, of what Atkinson had not heard, and it set him trembling.
Atkinson was looking round the room, with its queer furnishing of gilt. He was trying to estimate the income of this man who apparently did not go to work.
“What about a nurse?” he said. “I’ll send one in, shall I?”
Marble found his tongue.
“No,” he said, with overmuch vehemence—he
