“Antony,” said a voice at the door just then, and I went out to find Hallett looking very pale, and Linny lying insensible upon the couch.
“Oh, Hallett!” I exclaimed. “Shall Mary come?”
“Yes—directly,” he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. “Shut the door, boy,” he continued. “Look here, Antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as I opened it to give her air. You need not read it; but look at it. Tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before.”
I took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which I recognised on the instant.
“Oh yes!” I exclaimed, “often.”
“Whose writing is it?” he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. “Don’t speak rashly, Antony; make sure before you give an answer.”
“But I am sure,” I exclaimed, without a moment’s hesitation. “I have often seen it—it is Mr Lister’s writing. What does it mean?”
“Mean?” cried Hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. “My God, what does it not mean, but that John Lister is a villain!”