“I am the bearer of a missive for you, Mr. Follingsbee; but first, let me ask if I may know who sent me this message?”
“It was left in my hands,” replied the lawyer, smiling slightly, “by—by a person with ragged garments, and a dirty face. He appeared to be a deaf mute, and looked like—”
“Like an organ-grinder minus his organ?” finished Alan.
“Just so.”
“I trust that this will explain itself,” said Alan, drawing forth from an inner pocket Leslie’s letter, and giving it into the lawyer’s hand. “Read it, Mr. Follingsbee. This day has been steeped in mystery; let us clear away such clouds as we can.”
“From Leslie!” Mr. Follingsbee said, elevating his eyebrows. “This is an unexpected part of the programme.”
“Indeed? And yet this,—” and Alan tapped the note he had just received, with one long, white forefinger,—“this foretells it.”
“Ah!” Only this monosyllable; then Mr. Follingsbee broke the seal of Leslie’s letter and began its perusal, his face growing graver and more troubled as he read.
It was a long letter, and he read it slowly, turning back a page sometimes to re-read a certain passage. Finally he laid the letter upon his knee, and sat quite still, with his hands working together nervously and his brow wrinkled in thought. At last he lifted his eyes toward Alan.
“Do you know what this letter contains?” he asked slowly.