Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information as a turn for the better in the tide of his master's wrath.
“Who gave you that letter?”
“Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara.”
“Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his neck.”
“I'll wring his neck, too—if he has tried any of his games on me,” sobbed Isidore. “But it may not be a game. You are always so hasty.”
Castrillon read the letter through once more.
“I can't believe that she wrote it,” he said. “I'll swear she didn't.”
“And why?”
“Because the style is not in keeping with her character, blockhead! She does not ask me—or any one else—to visit her at two o'clock in the morning.”
A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, sullen lips quiver with emotion.