Hilda read the following:—
“Has your guest any recollection of hearing her father use the word zenith not in an astronomical sense?—John.”
“My brother asks an extraordinary question,” said Hilda, and handed the message to Kitty.
Kitty gazed at it, frowned and shook her head. Then—“Oh, wait! The answer to the question is ‘No,’ but once, quite recently, I heard my uncle speak of Zeniths—not zenith. But why should Mr. Risk—”
“Don’t ask me! I’ll just reply, ‘Not father but uncle,’” said Hilda, going to the writing-table.
And just then Matilda came in with another telegram.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Hilda, and with her pencil slit it open. Her gay expression faded out. She paled slightly, muttering, “Another matter,” and tore it into little pieces. Then she went on with writing the reply.
The torn telegram, which had been “handed in” at the same hour as its precursor, was also from her brother. It said—“Take very good care of your guest. No going out alone. But don’t alarm her.”
CHAPTER XIII
John Corrie was now fairly in the net. He reached his cottage in a condition verging on collapse, physical and mental, and slinking round to the back, gained admittance by the window of his own room, from which he had emerged an age, as it seemed, ago. He stood listening. . . . Not a sound. What was his sister doing? He must see her at once—not to tell her anything, but to discover whether she had learned of his having been out of doors.