She unfolded it slowly and her
eyes traced the written words within. It was a hasty scrawl, written
on the cheap paper of some obscure hotel in Jersey City, extremely
difficult to decipher, the hand of the man who wrote exhibiting plainly
the excitement under which he laboured.
It was a message of warning, he was leaving New York, and would sail
that evening for some place in South America, where he did not say.
Love only caused him to tell her what had occurred. A strange word
puzzled her, and before she could decipher it, voices broke the
silence, followed by steps on the stairs. She glanced up quickly; it
was Westcott returning, accompanied by a tall, rather slender man with
a closely-trimmed beard. The two crossed the room, and she met them
standing, the opened letter still in her hand.
"Miss Donovan, this is Frederick Cavendish--the real Frederick
Cavendish. I have told him something of the trouble he has been to us
all."
The real Frederick Cavendish smiled down into her eyes, while he held
her fingers tightly clasped in his own.
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