Miss Gray interrupted her:
“Is that the piece of paper?” she asked, drawing a scrap from her pocket.
Marion took it and read these astonishing words:
“Dear Ted: Here’s a treasure, right fresh from the country. Name, Marion Marlowe, looking for her uncle, Frederic Stanton at ‘The Norwood.’ Married her mother’s sister, but she has never seen him. Expected him to meet her, but, luckily for you, he didn’t. I’ll be around to-night; meanwhile I wish you luck. Don’t ever say again that I’m not a judge of beauty.”
The note was not signed, and Marion looked at the woman inquiringly.
“That was written by the blackest villain in New York,” said Miss Gray, her voice vibrating strangely, “and it is not his first effort in that direction either.”
Marion rose from her chair and confronted the woman. She understood at last the full horror of her position.
“I am the victim of a plot,” she said at last. “Oh, my dear Miss Gray, how can I thank you for telling me?”
For once the woman smiled; her features had softened amazingly. Marion’s expressions of gratitude seemed thawing her coldness.
“But can I not protect myself against them?” asked Marion, after a minute. “Can’t I have them arrested by a policeman or something?”