"Oh, Jeffcott," she said, "I'd never have given in if Mr. Ranger
hadn't stopped writing."
"Lor!" said Jeffcott. "Did he now?" He frowned for an instant.
"But---didn't you have a letter from him last week?" he questioned.
"Friday morning it were. I see Evans, the postman, and he said as
there were a South African letter for you. Weren't that from Mr.
Ranger, missie?"
"What?" said Sylvia sharply.
"Last Friday it were," the old man repeated firmly. "Why, I see
the letter in his hand top of the pile when he stopped in the drive
to speak to me. We both of us passed a remark on it."
Sylvia was staring at him. "Jeffcott, are you sure?" she said.
"Sure as I stand here, Miss Sylvia," he returned. "I couldn't have
made no mistake. Didn't you have it then, missie? I'll swear to
heaven it were there."
"No," Sylvia said. "I didn't have it." She paused a moment; then
very slowly, "The last letter I had from Guy Ranger," she said,
"was more than six weeks ago--the day that the squire brought Madam
to the Manor."
"Lor!" ejaculated old Jeffcott again. "But wherever could they
have got to, Miss Sylvia? Don't Bliss have the sortin' of the
letters?"
"I--don't--know." Sylvia was gazing straight before her with that
in her face which frightened the old man. "Those letters have
been--kept back.
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