“This letter is from a man whom I happen to know exceedingly well; I have met him several times in Australia. He is a certain Mr Manchuri.”
“Yes,” said Annie, her lips parted and the colour rushing into her cheeks.
“He says he knows you—he met you at the Hotel Belle Vue at Interlaken—and that, seeing your uncle’s death in the paper, he has written for a double purpose—to convey his condolences to all those who loved your dear uncle, and to request me to meet him in town on important business in connection with you.”
“Oh!” said Annie. She had been standing; she almost fell into her seat.
“He says further,” pursued Saxon, “that a great friend of yours, a Miss Priscilla Weir, is staying with him.”
“She told him, of course,” said Annie.
“What did you say, Annie?” John Saxon looked at her, a puzzled expression between his brows. Then he started to his feet. “I shall run up to town,” he said. “I will go to-day and see what this means. It was through Miss Weir he learned that I was staying here. But for that he says that he would have come himself to have an interview with you; as it is, he thinks I can manage matters best.”
“Don’t go!” said Annie in a choked voice.
“Don’t do what, my dear Annie?”
“Don’t go; don’t mind him. He means mischief.”