As they came up the garden at Ashfield, Mrs Leigh was standing on the terrace with a note in her hand, while two broad hats and striped frocks were disappearing down the footpath in the direction of Cleverley Hall. As Mrs Leigh saw the two young men coming, she retreated into the drawing-room, beckoning to them to follow her. She looked very pale and grave as she spoke to Sylvester.
“You have come to our help in this miserable business,” she said. “I don’t know what light, if any, is thrown on it by this extraordinary note.”
The note was written in an ill-formed, girlish hand, with spelling not above suspicion.
“Dear Mrs Leigh,” it ran, “There’s no reason for Amethyst to be in a scrape. Dear old Tony has made pets of us always, and he kissed me in the anti-room just for a spree. He’d never kiss HER, I’m certain, so don’t trouble yourself about it.
“Sincerely yours,—
“Una Haredale.”
“Una!” cried Sylvester, as by Mrs Leigh’s desire he read this extraordinary production, over Lucian’s shoulder. “Is that possible? can we have been mistaken?”
“I am certain of my own eyesight,” said Mrs Leigh. “This is a pretence. Lady Haredale is capable of anything; I have no dependence on a word they say.”
And Lucian thought of the story of the purse, of the “Make up some story to tell him,” that he had overheard—of what seemed to him the impossibility of mistaking Una for Amethyst—and was silent.
“Don’t you see?” said Sylvester hurriedly, “if this is so, all the rest goes for nothing—is easily explained by some one else’s secret.”
“You must know whether it was Una that you saw,” said Lucian, sullenly.
“Certainly it was not,” said Mrs Leigh. “Sylvester, you cannot think so.”