“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation—saw his start.
“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.
“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look—no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”
Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:
“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”
“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.
“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”
“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”
“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”
“What, money?”