The letter that Duane had read was this: 

“Sylvia and I were married quietly yesterday and she has told me that you will know why.  There is little further for me to say, Duane.  My wife is ill.  We’re going to Cape Town to live for a while.  We’re going to be happy.  I am now.  She will be.

“My wife asked me to write you.  Her regard for you is very high.  She wishes me to tell you that I know everything I ought to have known when we were married.  You were very kind to her.  You’re a good deal of a man, Duane.

“I want to add something:  her brother, Stuyve, is out of the hospital and loose again.  He’s got all the virtues of a Pomeranian pup—­that is, none; and he’ll make a rotten bad fist of it.  I’ll tell you now that, during the past winter, twice, when drunk, he shot at his sister.  She did not tell me this; he did, when in a snivelling condition at the hospital.

“So God knows what he may do in this matter.  It seems that the blackguard in question has been warned to steer clear of Stuyvesant.  It’s up to them.  I shall be glad to have Sylvia at Cape Town for a while.

    “Delancy Grandcourt was witness for me, Rosalie for Sylvia.  Delancy
    is a brick.  Won’t you ask him up to Roya-Neh?  He’s dying to go.

“And this is all.  It’s a queer life, isn’t it, old fellow?  But a
good sporting proposition, anyway.  It suits me.

“Our love to you, to the little chatelaine of Roya-Neh, to her
brother, to Kathleen.

“Tell them we are married and off for Cape Town, but tell them no
more.

“B.  Gray.”

“It isn’t necessary to say burn this scrawl.”

Geraldine, watching him in calm speculation, said: 

“I don’t see why they were married so quietly.  Nobody’s in mourning——­”

“Dear?”

“What, dear?”

“Do something for me.”

“I promise.”

“Then ask Delancy up here to shoot.  Do you mind?”

“I’d love to.  Can he come?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll write now.  Won’t it be jolly,” she said innocently, “to have him and Rosalie here together——­”

The blank change on his face checked her.  “Isn’t it all right?” she asked, astonished.

He had made his blunder.  There was only one thing for him to say and he said it cordially, mentally damning himself for forgetting that Rosalie was to be invited.

“I’ll write to them both this morning,” concluded Geraldine.  “Of course poor Jack Dysart is out of the question.”

“A little,” he said mildly.  And, furious with himself, he rose as she stood up, and followed her into the armory, her cool little hand trailing and just touching his.

For half an hour they prowled about, examining Winchesters, Stevens, Maenlichers—­every make and pattern of rifle and fowling-piece was represented in Scott’s collection.