During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.

"By the way," he said, "I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes--two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?"

"She wrote to me, dear," said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. "She was very much obliged to you."

"And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things--that you had nothing to do with them?"

"Oh yes, yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Won't you have some coffee, James?

I'll tell Matilda to bring it in."

"Coffee--fiddlestick!" said Martin; "and you know I hate to be called 'James.' Where's Bo-peep?"

"You are Bo-peep," said his wife with a funny smile.

"Well, then, no 'Jamesing' of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?"

"Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep."

"Well--but--where's the letter? I may as well see it. There's stuff in that girl. I don't despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I wouldn't have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter's a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me."

Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly ent.i.tled to her own father's money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.

Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin's taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter.

"I saw you reading something as I came along," he said. "When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?"

"Only Maggie."

"And that is the letter you spoke about?"

"Yes, dear James--I mean Bo-peep--yes. The child is very grateful."

"She ought to be. I'd like to see the letter. Where is it?"

"I will go upstairs and fetch it," said Mrs. Martin, who knew well that it was safe in her pocket all the time.

James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.

"Do so," he said. "Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I'll allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don't you, Little-sing?"

"Yes. I will fetch the letter," said Mrs. Martin.

She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was determined to read poor Maggie's letter at any cost. He waited impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.

"Please, sir," she said, "cook wants to see you for a minute."

"I can't see her now. Tell her so," replied Martin.

"Which is no message for a woman of my cla.s.s," said Horniman, entering the room and showing a very heated face. "I wishes to give notice that I leave your service this day month."

"You can go to-morrow," said Martin.

"As you please, sir; wages in full."

"You go to-morrow," said Martin; "and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room."

Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.

"Whatever is keeping Little-sing?" thought Martin to himself.

He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.

"She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour," he said to himself. "She is destroying it now; but she sha'n't--not before I get it."

He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs.

He stopped outside his wife's bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.

"Open the door at once," he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.

"Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!"

"Where is that letter, Victoria?"

"It--it--I can't find it," she replied.

"What are those papers lying on the floor?"

Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and, taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the dining-room.

"Now, you sit there, Little-sing," he said, "while I piece the letter together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but you've quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you and me. I'm not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to have that girl ruling you. You're frightened of that girl. Now, let's see what she has to say."

Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep's arm, and looked into his face. "She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until you came back. Please--please, don't read it!"

"Nonsense, Little-sing," he replied, restored once more to the height of good humor. "You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me not to see every word of the letter now."

It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie's letter; but at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs.

Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her forcibly in her seat.

When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, "I don't blame you, Little-sing, not one bit. But we've got to punish this girl.

To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and I shall be busy then; but on Sat.u.r.day we'll take a half-holiday and go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House--you and me together, Little-sing--the grocer and his wife together. Not a word, my love; not a word."

CHAPTER XXI.

TILDY'S MESSAGE.