“This is a telegram from Mr. Merritt. I will read it to you,” he said; and he read:
“City Hall, Washington, D. C., May 1, 187—.
“To Mr. William Williams, 110 Drouse Street, New York: Miss Fronde cannot interfere in the case of the abducted child. Wait for a letter of explanation.
“Amos Merritt.”
“This is strange, and passing strange, Annie, is it not?” inquired the young man.
“It is indeed. I do not understand it in the least,” sighed the seamstress.
“We must wait for the letter of explanation, it seems. That will clear up the case, I hope,” concluded Harcourt.
At that moment there was another knock at Harcourt’s door.
“I wonder what that is. It can’t be another telegram,” he said, with a slight smile, as he again got up and went out in the passage.
But it was another telegram, for in a few moments Harcourt returned to the seamstress’ room with a face so white and a frame so shaken that she started up in a fright, and hurriedly exclaimed: