Burton jumped up from the couch, where he had been revolving the situation, and a scrap of paper, dislodged from his clothing, fell to the floor. He picked it up and read:
"Spy!
"Go back, spy, or you'll be sorry."
In spite of nerves that were ordinarily steady enough, Burton felt a thrill of something like dismay. An unfriendly presence had bent over him while he slept, left this message of sinister import, and vanished as he had vanished into the night when pursued. The thought that he had lain helpless under the scrutiny of this soft-footed, invisible enemy was more disturbing than the threat itself. It gave him a sensation of repulsion that made him understand Miss Underwood's feeling. The situation was not merely bizarre. It was intolerable.
He examined the slip of paper carefully. It was long and narrow and soft,--such a strip as might have been torn from the margin of a newspaper. The writing was with a very soft, blunt pencil. A pencil such as he had seen carpenters use in marking boards might have made those heavy lines. The hand was obviously disguised and not very skilfully, for while occasional strokes were laboriously unsteady, others were rapid and firm.
He folded the paper and put it carefully away in his pocketbook. If this were Henry's work, he undoubtedly was also the author of the anonymous typewritten notices which had been circulated in the town. Why was the message written this time instead of typewritten? A typewriter in the corner of the room caught his eye, as though it were itself the answer to his question. With a swift suspicion in his mind, he sat down before it and wrote a few lines. Upon comparing these with the typewritten slip which the doctor had shown him the evening before, and which still lay on the mantel, it was perfectly clear that they had both been produced by the same machine. Some one who had easy and unquestioned access to this room used the doctor's typewriter to tick off insinuations against its owner! It seemed like substantial proof of Henry's guilt. Who else could use this room without exciting comment? The audacity of the scheme was hardly more surprising than its simple-mindedness. Burton crushed his sheet in his hand and tossed it into the wastepaper basket with a feeling of contempt.
While he made a camp toilet he wondered why he had let himself in for all this. He had acted on a foolish impulse. There were roily depths in the matter which it would probably be better not to stir up, and it must now be his immediate care to get out of the whole connection as soon as possible. He had no desire to play detective against Miss Underwood's brother. Thank heaven that her acceptance of his tender for Philip had been so conditioned! He would withdraw while the matter was still nebulous.
There came a tap at the door and Mrs. Bussey entered.
"Breakfast's ready," she announced. Then she waited a moment and added in a shamefaced undertone that betrayed the unfamiliarity of the message, "Miss Underwood's compliments!" and vanished in obvious embarrassment.
Burton had to laugh at that, and with more cheerfulness than he would have thought possible he found his way to the breakfast room. Miss Underwood herself smiled a welcome at him from the head of the table.
"You are to breakfast tête-à-tête with me," she said, answering his unconscious look of inquiry. "Mother always breakfasts in her room, and poor father will have to do the same this morning. Henry has been gardening for hours. So you have only myself left!"