“Georgie!”
“My dear, don’t be breathless. What now?”
An old yellow half-sheet of paper, folded neatly over one short, thick lock of black hair; and on the outside was written, “Hubert Brooke: aged 21. Woodleigh.” That was all. But it might mean more than a stranger would suppose, for George’s home was Woodleigh Hall of Woodleigh.
“Singular!” was George’s comment.
“She must be some friend or acquaintance of yours.”
“I can’t possibly say. I am as much in the dark as you are yourself. This must have been dropped by accident. We will keep it carefully.”
Then he sank into a brown study.
“What do you mean to do next?” Dulcibel asked at length.
“Find her,” George answered with brevity.
“Find Joan’s mother! But how?”