Slowly the carriage moved along, picking its way across crowded thoroughfares, for many blocks, the occupant keeping a close watch upon the movements of Van Vernet, this time through the window in front.
Finally, leaning back in the carriage with a muttered, “That settles it; he’s going to track them home,” he again addressed the driver:
“Turn back, Jim.”
“All right, sir.”
“Drive to Warburton Place, side entrance.”
Leslie Warburton, her vigil being over, was alone in her room, pacing restlessly up and down, a look of dire foreboding on her face, and in her hand a crumpled note.
At the sound of an opening door she turned to confront her maid, who proffered her a card.
Leslie took it mechanically and then started as she read thereon:
Madam Stanhope,
Modeste.
And written in the corner of the card, the underlined word, Imperative.