“Turk!” he called at last. “I want you to carry a note to Miss Garrison, and I want you to make sure that she reads it. I don't know how the devil you are to do it, but you must. Don't bother me, Dickey. I don't care a continental what the fellow downstairs says; I've got something else to think about.” He threw open the lid to one of his trunks and ruthlessly grabbed up some stationery. In a minute he was at the table, writing.
“Is Kapolski dead?” asked Dickey.
“I don't know and don't care. I'll explain in a minute. Sit down somewhere and don't stare, Dickey—for the Lord's sake, don't stare like a scared baby.” He completed the feverishly written note, sealed the envelope, and thrust it into Turk's hands. “Now, get that note to her, or don't come back to me. Be quick about it, too.”
Turk was off, full of fresh wonder and the importance of his mission. Quentin took a few turns up and down the room before he remembered that he owed some sort of an explanation to his companion.
“She wouldn't see me,” he said, briefly.
“What's the matter? Sick?”
“No explanation. Just wouldn't see me, that's all.”
“Which means it's all off, eh? The prince got there first and spiked your guns. Well? What have you written to her?”
“That I am going to see her to-night if I have to break into the house.”
“Bravely done! Good! And you'll awake in a dungeon cell to-morrow morning, clubbed to a pulp by the police. You may break into the house, but it will be just your luck to be unable to break out of jail in time for the wedding on the 16th. What you need is a guardian.”