"Is that all?"
"Yes, everything."
"In Naples, in five days?"
"Yes; the Hôtel de Londres. And now I must leave you."
He startled her by taking her hand and wringing it. She was still looking down at the packet as he withdrew, and the door closed behind him.
She listened for a moment, and then turned the key in the lock. Durkin, stepping from his place of concealment, confronted her. They stood gazing at each other in blank astonishment.
Frank's first impulse was to tear open the envelope. But on second thoughts she flew to her alcohol tea-lamp and lighted the flame. It was only a minute or two before a jet of steam came from the tiny kettle spout. Over this she shifted and held the gummed envelope-flap, until the mucilage softened and dissolved. Then, holding her breath, she peeled back the flap, and from the envelope drew three soiled but carefully folded copies of the London Daily Chronicle. The envelope held nothing more.
A little cry of disappointment escaped Durkin, while Frank turned the papers over in her fingers, in speechless amazement. The very audacity of the man swept her off her feet.
It was both a warning and a challenge, grim with its suggestiveness, eloquent with careless defiance. That was her first thought.
"The fool—he's making fun of you!" said Durkin, with a second passionate oath.