He dropped
into a chair, his white head sunk upon his bosom, he sobbed and trembled,
and for the first time showed his age.
"What on earth is the matter?" said Mr. Bartley's voice, as cold as an
icicle, at the door. Mary sprang toward him impetuously. "Oh, papa!" she
cried, "Colonel Clifford is dying, and we don't know where Walter is; we
can't know."
"Wait a little," said Bartley, in some agitation. "My letters have just
come in, and I thought I saw a foreign postmark." He slipped back into
the hall, brought in several letters, selected one, and gave it to Mary,
"This is for you, from Marseilles."
He then retired to his study, and without the least agitation or the
least loss of time returned with a book of telegraph forms.
Meanwhile Mary tore the letter open, and read it eagerly to John Baker.
"GRAND HOTEL, NOAILLES, MARSEILLES, _May_ 16.
"MY OWN DEAR LOVE,--I have vowed that I will not write again to tempt you
to anything you think wrong; but it looks like quarrelling to hide my
address from you.
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