And quite suddenly Gillian, who had faced Death and fought him with a dogged courage and determination that had won the grave-eyed doctor’s rare approval, broke down and burst into tears.
Magda petted and soothed her, until at last her sobs ceased and she smiled through her tears.
“I am a fool!” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a moist, screwed-up ball of something that had once been a cambric handkerchief. “But I’ve quite recovered now—really. Come and tell me about everything. Did Davilof play for you all right? And did you enjoy the dance afterwards? And, oh, I forgot! There’s a letter for you on the mantelpiece. It was delivered by hand while we were both at Lady Arabella’s.”
Mechanically, as she responded to Gillian’s rapid fire of questions, Magda picked up the square envelope propped against the clock and slit open the flap. It was probably only some note of urgent invitation—she received dozens of them. An instant later a half-stifled cry broke from her. Gillian turned swiftly.
“What is it?” she asked, a note of apprehension sharpening her voice.
Magda stared at her dumbly. Then she held out the letter.
“Read it,” she said flatly. “It’s from Kit Raynham’s mother.”
Gillian’s eyes flew along the two brief lines of writing:
“Kit has disappeared. Do you know where he is?—ALICIA RAYNHAM.”