It was a note addressed to himself in Frank's handwriting; and there, standing on the steps, he read it through; and his heart turned suddenly sick.
* * * * * There is all the difference in the world between knowing that a catastrophe is going to happen, and knowing that it has happened.

Jack knew--at least, with all his reasonable part--that Frank was going to leave Cambridge in the preposterous manner described, after breakfast with himself; and it was partly because of this very knowledge that he had got up earlier in order to have an extra hour with Frank before the final severance came.

Yet there was something in him--the same thing that had urged him to rehearse little speeches in bed just now--that told him that until it had actually happened, it had not happened, and, just conceivably, might not happen after all.

And he had had no idea how strong this hopeful strain had been in him--nor, for that matter, how very deeply and almost romantically he was attached to Frank--until he felt his throat hammering and his head becoming stupid, as he read the terse little note in the fresh morning air of Jesus Lane.
It ran as follows: "DEAR JACK, "It's no good, and I'm off early! That ass Mackintosh went and wired to my people directly I left him.

I tracked him down.