With cold sweat breaking at his temples he looked up to meet the questioning stare of Yvonne Kovenay’s dark eyes.
“You know who this is from?” He asked it absently like one who scarcely expects a reply.
“Yes,” she answered. Then leaning forward over the desk she said it in a whisper scarcely more than audible: “It is from J.C.X.”
“Yvonne, tell me, have you ever met him?”
“No!” There was a suppressed shudder in the emphasis. “I hope I never do meet him. If I did—” Her voice trailed off to incoherency.
Hon. J. J. Slack shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Oh, I know what you think, Yvonne. I know what you think—it’s what they all think.” But Slack’s indifferent shrug merely disguised the goose-flesh shiver that ran through his own frame.
“Was there anything else, Yvonne?”
“Yes—a personal favour.” She pulled nervously at the fingers of her gloves. “Tell me, what is that girl doing out at Amethyst Island?”
“Good heavens, how should I know? Is there a girl stopping at Amethyst Island?”
“You didn’t know she was there?”