Today is the eighteenth,
isn't it. They start on the twenty-second; that's four days from now."

"Of course you have written them that we cannot accept their invitation
to go along?"

She hesitated. "Why, no," she admitted, "I haven't. That is, I have
written 'em, but I haven't posted the letter. Humph! did you notice
that 'posted'? Shows what livin' in a different place'll do even to
as settled a body as I am. In Bayport I should have said 'mailed' the
letter, same as anybody else. I must be careful or I'll go back home
and call the expressman a 'carrier' and a pie a 'tart' and a cracker a
'biscuit.' Land sakes! I remember readin' how David Copperfield's aunt
always used to eat biscuits soaked in port wine before she went to bed.
I used to think 'twas dreadful dissipated business and that the old
lady must have been ready for bed by the time she got through. You see
I always had riz biscuits in mind. A cracker's different; crackers don't
soak up much. We'd ought to be careful how we judge folks, hadn't we,
Hosy."

"Yes," said I, absently. "So you haven't posted the letter to the
Heptons. Why not?"

"Well--well, to tell you the truth, Hosy, I was kind of hopin' you might
change your mind and decide to go, after all. I wish you would; 'twould
do you good. And," wistfully, "Switzerland must be lovely. But there! I
know just how you feel, you poor boy. I'll mail the letter to-night."

"Give it to me," said I. "I'll--I'll see to it."

Hephzy handed me the letter. I put it in my pocket, but I did not
post it that evening. A plan--or the possible beginning of a plan--was
forming in my mind.

That night was another of my bad ones. The little sleep I had was filled
with dreams, dreams from which I awoke to toss restlessly. I rose and
walked the floor, calling myself a fool, a silly old fool, over and
over again. But when morning came my plan, a ridiculous, wild plan from
which, even if it succeeded--which was most unlikely--nothing but added
trouble and despair could possibly come, my plan was nearer its ultimate
formation.

At eleven o'clock that forenoon I walked up the marble steps of the
Manor House and rang the bell. The butler, an exalted personage in
livery, answered my ring. Mr. Heathcroft? No, sir. Mr. Heathcroft had
left for London by the morning train. Her ladyship was in her boudoir.
She did not see anyone in the morning, sir. I had no wish to see her
ladyship, but Heathcroft's departure was a distinct dis