Anyway, no one saw her like--that." He pointed to
the sketch. "And she's gone--gone as completely as though she came
in a flying-machine and went away in one. She's gone--unless--"
"What?"
"Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill. She's gone
--or hiding."
"You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding," said
Philip, concealing the effect of the other's words upon him.
Gregson was uneasy. He lighted a cigarette, puffed at it once or
twice, and tossed it through the open door. Suddenly he reached in
his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.
"Deuce take it, if I know whether I have or not!" he cried. "But--
look here, Phil. I saw the mail come in to-day, and I walked up as
bold as you please and asked if there was anything for Lord
Fitzhugh. I showed the other letter, and said I was Fitzhugh's
agent. It went. And I got--this!"
Philip snatched at the letter which Gregson held out to him. His
fingers trembled as he unfolded the single sheet of paper which he
drew forth. Across it was written a single line:
Don't lose an hour. Strike now.
There was nothing more, except a large ink blot under the words.
The envelope was addressed in the same hand as the one he had
previously received.
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