"I am to give it from my hands into his hands," she said. "And I am to
give it to him in no other way."
"Shall I write, and tell him what you have said?"
"Tell him I hate him. And you will tell him the truth."
"Yes, yes. But about the letter?"
"If he wants the letter, he must come back here, and get it from Me."
With those words she limped off on the way to Cobb's Hole. The
detective-fever burnt up all my dignity on the spot. I followed her,
and tried to make her talk. All in vain. It was my misfortune to be
a man--and Limping Lucy enjoyed disappointing me. Later in the day, I
tried my luck with her mother. Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry,
and recommend a drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. I found the
fisherman on the beach. He said it was "a bad job," and went on mending
his net. Neither father nor mother knew more than I knew. The one
way left to try was the chance, which might come with the morning, of
writing to Mr. Franklin Blake.
I leave you to imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday morning.
He brought me two letters. One, from Penelope (which I had hardly
patience enough to read), announced that my lady and Miss Rachel were
safely established in London.
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