She closed Hector’s with a sigh, and picking up Josiah’s, already fastened, she ran with them quickly down the stairs.

There was an immense pile of correspondence—­the accumulation of Whitsuntide.

The box that usually received it was quite full, and several letters lay about on the table.

She placed her two with the rest, and turned to leave the hall.  She could not face all the company on the lawn just yet, and went back to her room, meeting Morella Winmarleigh bringing some of her own to be posted as she passed through the saloon.

When Miss Winmarleigh reached the table curiosity seized her.  She guessed what had been Theodora’s errand.  She would like to see her writing and to whom the letters were addressed.

No one was about anywhere.  All the correspondence was already there, as in five minutes or less the post would go.

She had no time to lose, so she picked up the last two envelopes which lay on the top of the pile and read the first: 

To
  Josiah Brown, Esq.,
    Claridge’s Hotel,
      Brook Street,
        London, W.

and the other: 

The Lord Bracondale,
    Bracondale Chase,
        Bracondale.

“The husband and—­the lover!” she said to herself.  And a sudden temptation came over her, swift and strong and not to be resisted.

Here would be revenge—­revenge she had always longed for! while her sullen rage had been gathering all these last days.  She heard the groom of the chambers approaching to collect the letters; she must decide at once.  So she slipped Theodora’s two missives into her blouse and walked towards the door.

“There is another post which goes at seven, isn’t there, Edgarson?” she asked, “and the letters are delivered in London to-morrow morning just the same?”

“Yes, ma’am, they arrive by the second post in London,” said the man, politely, and she passed on to her room.

Arrived there, excitement and triumph burned all over her.  Here, without a chance of detection, she could crush her rival and see her thoroughly punished, and—­who knows?—­Hector might yet be caught in the rebound.

She would not hesitate a second.  She rang for her maid.

“Bring me my little kettle and the spirit-lamp.  I want to sip some boiling water,” she said.  “I have indigestion.  And then you need not wait—­I shall read until tea.”

She was innocently settled on her sofa with a book when the maid returned.  She was a well-bred servant, and silently placed the kettle and glass and left the room noiselessly.  Morella sprang to her feet with unusual agility.  Her heavy form was slow of movement as a rule.

The door once locked, she returned to the sofa and began operations.

The kettle soon boiled, and the steam puffed out and achieved its purpose.

The thin, hand-made paper of the envelope curled up, and with no difficulty she opened the flap.