"Yes," she said, "but I can't play any longer. I am so sorry, but I have hurt my hand. No, it's a mere nothing. I am going in to bathe it."
"Oh, it's an awful pity," said Lord Charles. "I am very sorry. Well, the game is over. We must play it out another day. I'm going down to the village, and I'll call at the chemist's for a lotion. I expect you have sprained your hand." And suddenly, reminded of his mission, he was walking toward his coat, but Lenore glanced at the countess, and Lady Wyndward stopped him with a word.
"We can't have the game stopped," she said. "Here is Miss Dalton dying to play, aren't you, dear?" she said, turning to a young girl who had been watching the game. "Yes, I knew it. You must take her in place of Lenore. Go on, my dear."
Miss Dalton, or Miss any one else, would as soon have thought of disobeying Lady Wyndward as jumping off the top story of the Hall, and the girl rose obediently and took the racquet which Lenore smilingly held out to her.
Then what did Lenore do? She walked deliberately to Lord Charles' coat, dropped her bracelet on it, stooped, picked up the bracelet, and abstracted the letter, and concealing the latter in her sunshade, glided toward the house.
With fast beating heart she gained her own room and locked the door.
Then she drew the letter from her sunshade and eyed it as a thief might eye a safe in which lay the treasure he coveted.
Then she rang the bell and ordered some hot water.
"I have sprained my wrist," she said, in explanation, "and I want the water very hot."