Cholmondeley was now astonished in his turn; and hastily taking a paper from his pocket, he handed it to Lady Ravensworth, saying, "The key was enclosed in this."
Adeline cast her eyes upon the paper, and read these words:—
"The key contained herein belongs to a door on the southern side of Ravensworth Hall: and that door communicates with a private staircase leading to the passage from which my own apartments open. I wish to converse with you in secret—if only for a moment; and though I have taken this imprudent—this unpardonable step, you will surely spare my feelings, should you avail yourself of the possession of the key, by forbearing in my presence from any allusion to the means by which it fell into your hands."
"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Adeline, when she had hurriedly glanced over the paper: "I am ruined—I am undone! It must be that fiend Lydia, who has thus paved the way for my utter destruction!"
There was the wildness of despair in the manner of Lady Ravensworth, as she uttered these words; and Cholmondeley could not for another moment imagine that her distress was feigned.
"What do you mean, Adeline?" he said: "did you not send me the key?—did you not pen those lines? Surely—surely the handwriting is yours?"
"As God is my judge, Cholmondeley," she answered, emphatically, "I never sent you the key—I never penned those lines! No—it is Lydia who has done it: she knows my writing well—she has imitated it but too faithfully! Go—fly—depart, Cholmondeley: ruin awaits me—perhaps both!"
The Colonel dared not delay another moment: the almost desperate wildness of Adeline's manner convinced him that she spoke the truth—that she had not invited him thither.
"At least let me hope to see you soon again—or to hear from you," he said, imprinting a hasty kiss upon her forehead.
"Yes—yes—any thing you will, so that you now leave me," she cried, in a tone of agonising alarm.