Leslie seated herself with her back to her companion and opened her own letters. After a time she looked round. Annie was standing just where she was when she received the letter; both her hands were clutching it tightly, her eyes were fixed upon the written words, and her face was white.
“Have you had bad news?” said Leslie.
“Don’t notice me,” replied Annie. She crushed the letter up tight, thrust it into her pocket, and said abruptly, “What is the hour?”
“It is quite late—between ten and eleven.”
“I don’t care. I must go into the grounds; the air is stifling.”
“But they are just shutting up.”
“I shall go—I know a way. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back presently.”
She seized a small cloth cap which she was fond of wearing, and ran out of the room.
Leslie stood and thought about her for a moment or two; but then her own correspondence absorbed her, and she did not notice when eleven and even twelve struck.
Just after midnight she rose with a sigh to prepare for bed. She looked round the room. There was no sign of Annie Colchester.