“She’s a nice little girl, but I’m hanged if I know what she meant.”
And, as the one was thinking exclusively of Agatha Glyn, and the other spared a thought for no one but Agatha Brown, they did not arrive at an explanation.
One result, however, that chance encounter had. The next morning Miss Agatha Glyn received a letter in the following terms:
“Madam:—I hope you will excuse me intruding, but I think you would wish to know that Mr. Charles Merceron is in London, and that I met him this evening with Mr. Wentworth. As you informed me that you had passed Mr. Merceron on the road two or three times during your visit to Lang Marsh, I think you may wish to be informed of the above. I may add that Mr. Merceron is aware that you are engaged to Mr. Wentworth, but I could not make out how far he was aware of what happened at Lang Marsh. I think he does not know it. Of course you will know whether Mr. Wentworth is aware of your visit there. I should be much obliged if you would be so kind as to tell me what to say if I meet the gentlemen again. Mr. Merceron is very pressing in asking me for news of you. I am to be married in a fortnight from the present date, and I am, Madam, yours respectfully, Nettie Wallace.”
“In London, and with Calder!” exclaimed Agatha Glyn. “Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! What is to be done? I wish I’d never gone near the wretched place!”
Then she took up the letter and reread it.
“He and I mustn’t meet, that’s all,” she said.
Then she slowly tore the letter into very small pieces and put them in the waste-paper basket.
“Calder has no idea where I was,” she said, and she sat down by the window and looked out over the Park for nearly ten minutes.
“Ah, well! I should like to see him just once again. Dear old Pool.” said she.