they was a-jawin' about the shine
up here that night, and the pal was a-chaffin' Mashing cos of the wipin'
my bloke give 'im, and Mashing he says he reckons he's quits with the
prig--meaning the governor--by this time, he says. And t'other one say
`'Ow?' And Mashing says as the governor's a conwex son, and he knows
who Mr Conwex is, he says, and he are writ a letter to Miss Conwex, he
says, down in the country, that'll open 'er goggle eyes, he says."

"What!" I exclaimed, starting from my seat, "he's written to Mary, the
brute!"

"Dunno so much about your Mary, but that's what he says," replied Billy,
composedly.

"When--when did he write--eh?" I cried.

"'Ow do I know?" retorted Billy, who evidently misunderstood and failed
to appreciate my agitated manner.

"I aren't arsked 'im. Arst 'im yourself if you want to know."

And he drew himself up in evident dudgeon.

I didn't know what to do. It was no time to denounce or lament. The
thought of the poor innocent girl receiving such a letter as Masham
would be likely to write was too much to endure. If only I could
prevent her seeing it!

"When did you hear all this?" I said to Billy.

"Find out. 'Tain't no concern of yourn," said the offended hero.

"But, Billy," said I, "it's most important. Do you, know that what
Masham has done will make your Mr Smith miserable?"

Billy started at this.

"If I'd a known that, I'd a wrung his leg off," said he.

"But when was it? This morning?"

"No, last night."

Last night! Then the letter would already have reached Packworth, and
long before Jack and his father arrived the happiness of her life would
have been dashed.

It seemed no use attempting anything. I determined, however, to send a
telegram to meet Jack on his arrival, so as to warn him, in case the
letter should still be undelivered. I worded it carefully, for fear it
might be opened before Jack arrived.

"Hawkesbury did hear our talk. He told Masham, who has written a letter
to some one we both care for."

This I flattered myself was sufficiently unintelligible to any one but
Jack.

I spent the rest of the evening in fighting against the tumult of my own
feelings. My impulse had been to rush at once to Hawkesbury and charge
him with his infamy. But what good would that do? And who was I, to
prefer such a charge against another? My next was to find out Masham,
and take some desperate revenge on him. But, after all, my only
authori