Suddenly a thought came to her.
The mirror!—yes, that was the thing. By the aid of the mirror she would be able to identify the sheet she wanted at once. She hurried up to the fireplace.
Above it was an oval mirror framed in wood which had been painted white, and, shaking exceedingly, hardly knowing what she did, she held up the heavy blotter with the paper facing the mirror, and slowly turned over the thick white sheets.
While she was doing this, with a perfectly livid face, she heard the faint sound of an advancing footstep.
It was at the very moment when she thought she had discovered what she wanted, and with twitching fingers was about to tear it out from the book.
The sound of the step came from behind the curtains which hung over the windows leading to the terrace.
Lady Attwill almost bounded back to the writing-table and put down the blotter upon it.
She had hardly done so, and was actually closing the book, when the curtains parted with a soft swish and Collingwood came into the room.
He came in jauntily and easily enough, but there was something in his face which made Alice Attwill give a little startled gasp of alarm and despair.
"Writing letters, Alice?" Collingwood said easily, though there was a chill in his voice which sounded like the note of doom in the miserable woman's ears.