“It’s in a lady’s hand, and that’s why I brought it,” said the steward.
He took out his pocket-book and drew from it a small square envelope, daintily addressed and sealed.
Lord Towyn uttered a cry of joy, recognizing the handwriting at once.
“It is from Neva!” he ejaculated.
He hurried with it to a window, turning his back on his friends, and tore open the envelope, disclosing a four-page letter, signed with the name of Neva Wynde.
“Ah!” he cried aloud. “It is dated Brussels.”
“We were on the right track then,” said Atkins exultantly.
The young earl perused his letter with a glad heart.
It was very tender and very sweet, full of delicate allusions to their betrothal, and was indeed such a letter as only a woman could write, yet the young lover was not satisfied. The letter lacked the straightforward simplicity that distinguished Neva, and it seemed to Lord Towyn to lack also sincerity. It had been written from the head rather than from the heart, and his first great joy and gladness gave way to a sudden and terrible sense of disappointment.
The steward, seeing that he was not wanted, went quietly from the room, intent upon securing his dinner.