"Master was preparing for a two days' journey when this letter came. He threw it into his desk, and bade me lock it, and bring him the key. His back was turned, and I took the letter before I locked the desk. It was a long one, and from her; I thought you might want to see it."
"Right, Henry," said the girl, quietly, as she opened the letter. "You will wait for it?"
"Yes, miss; it must not be missing when he comes."
"Certainly not."
She returned to the letter, and this is what she read:
Oakley, October 11.
Lucian, Mon Brave:
I am in a fine predicament—have made a startling discovery. Mr. A—— has been sick, and the mischief is to pay; and his sickness has brought some ugly facts to light.
The old man is not the sole proprietor of the Oakley wealth. That girl who ran away so mysteriously, and has never been heard of, will inherit at his death. He can bequeath his widow nothing. Oh, to know where that girl is! If she is alive, my work is useless, my time is wasted. I think the old chap must have driven her to desperation, for he raved in his delirium of her and her words at parting. They must have been "searchers."
Well, to add to the general interest, Miss Arthur, aged fifty or so, is here. She is a juvenile old maid, who has a fortune in her own right, and so must be cultivated. She dresses like a sixteen-year-old, and talks like a fool, principally about a certain admirer, a "blonde demi-god"—her words—named Percy.