Clare, and which Magdalen's questions had obliged him to
acknowledge. A look at his wife decided his doubts in the negative. He
only asked if she felt comfortable; and then turned away to leave the
room.
"Must you go?" she asked.
"I have a letter to write, my dear."
"Anything about Frank?"
"No: to-morrow will do for that. A letter to Mr. Pendril. I want him
here immediately."
"Business, I suppose?"
"Yes, my dear--business."
He went out, and shut himself into the little front room, close to the
hall door, which was called his study. By nature and habit the most
procrastinating of letter-writers, he now inconsistently opened his desk
and took up the pen without a moment's delay. His letter was long enough
to occupy three pages of note-paper; it was written with a readiness
of expression and a rapidity of hand which seldom characterized his
proceedings when engaged over his ordinary correspondence. He wrote the
address as follows: "Immediate--William Pendril, Esq., Serle Street,
Lincoln's Inn, London"--then pushed the letter away from him, and sat
at the table, drawing lines on the blotting-paper with his pen, lost in
thought. "No," he said to himself; "I can do nothing more till Pendril
comes.
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