"Nothing. The dagger is our only clue as yet—except this."
He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and touched it lightly with his finger.
"What is it? May I see?"
He handed it to her at once.
"It was in his pocket," he said. "I am keeping it to hand over to the proper authorities. Mr. Brown offered to take care of it, but I felt that, as a magistrate, I was in a measure responsible for everything in the shape of a clue, so I brought it away with me. Read it."
She opened the half sheet of notepaper and glanced down it. It was written in a queer cramped handwriting—evidently disguised.
"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, you are doing a very rash and foolish thing in coming back to your own country, and thereby publishing your whereabouts to the world. Have you forgotten what hangs over you—or can you be so mad as to think that he has forgiven? Read this as a warning; and if life is in any way dear to you, go back to that hiding which alone has kept you safe for so many years. Do not hesitate or delay for one half-hour—one minute may be too long. If, after reading this, you linger in England, and disregard my warning, take care that you look into your life and hold yourself prepared to die."
She gave it back to him. There was some one, then, whom he had injured very deeply. It was like an echo from that stormy past of which many people had spoken.
"He had an enemy," she murmured, passing her arm through her father's.
"It seems so," he answered. "A terrible enemy."