“It was Mr. Sabin!—the man who calls himself Sabin!”
A little moan of despair crept out from her lips. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
CHAPTER XXX
THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-STORM
Mr. Sabin, entering his breakfast-room as usual at ten o’clock on the following morning, found, besides the usual pile of newspapers and letters, a telegram, which had arrived too late for delivery on the previous evening. He opened it in leisurely fashion whilst he sipped his coffee. It was handed in at the Charing Cross Post Office, and was signed simply “K.”:—
“Just returned. When can you call and conclude arrangements? Am anxious to see you. Read to-night’s paper.—K.”
The telegram slipped from Mr. Sabin’s fingers. He tore open the St. James’s Gazette, and a little exclamation escaped from his lips as he saw the thick black type which headed the principal columns:—