when our eyes met, and when she saw that we were alone. Then, with that courage which women lose so often in the small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me, strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along the table by which she walked, and holding something at her side in the other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.
“I only went into the drawing-room,” she said, “to look for this. It may remind you of your visit here, and of the friends
You saw me send the gardener on to the house, with a letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to Miss Fairlie?”
“Certainly.”
“The letter is an anonymous letter—a vile attempt to injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister’s estimation. It has so agitated and alarmed her that I have had the greatest