"That is", she said--"if it is not an inconvenience to you--"

He could find no words. Some fifteen minutes before, having enclosed
the notes, he had descended to the bar to get mine host to find him
a messenger, and direct the envelope--for Hogarth knew his
handwriting. Mine host was not there--his wife could not write: but
she had pointed out the Jewish park-keeper sipping beer; so Loveday
had had the man upstairs, had made him write the address, and had
bribed him to deliver the envelope with a mum tongue.

"I'm afraid I've taken a great liberty--" she said, shrinking at his
silence.

Then he spoke: "Oh, liberty!--but--really--I'm quite broke myself--!"

"Then, good-afternoon to you", said she: "I am very sorry--but you
will excuse the liberty, won't you--?"

In the forest she began to cry, covering her eyes, moaning: "Why,
how could he be so _mean_? And I who loved that young man with all
my heart, God knows--!"

Her eyes searched the ground for two sovereigns. Then she happened
to look at the envelope: and instantly was interested. "Why, it is
the Jew's hand!" she thought, for the letters were angular in the
German manner, making a general similarity with Frankl's writing.

Curiosity overcame her: she opened, and saw...