you’ve tormented me long enough. Do you mean that Miss Croydon didn’t write the note?”
“I mean just that.”
“Then who did?”
“Tremaine!”
The word brought Drysdale to his feet like a thunder-clap.
“Do you mean,” he demanded, gripping his hands tight behind him, “that Tremaine wrote the note and placed it in my room in order to get me out of the house?”
“I do.”
“And that Miss Croydon knew nothing about it?”
“Not a thing—she was waiting for you in the house. She thought you’d deliberately broken an appointment you’d made with her.”
Drysdale ground his teeth together and struck himself a savage blow in the chest.
“Good God!” he groaned. “What a fool! What a perfect, muckle-headed fool!”
“Go on,” laughed Godfrey. “Do it again—sackcloth and ashes! You deserve it all!”
“Deserve it! Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“I shouldn’t if I were in her place,” Godfrey assured him. “I’d think myself well rid of you. I shouldn’t want to marry an idiot.”
Drysdale cursed dismally to himself.
“Still,” Godfrey added, “there’s no accounting for the whims of women—there’s no telling what they’ll do. Maybe, after this, you’ll come nearer appreciating her as she deserves.”
