It was scrawled in pencil, evidently in a frantic hurry.
"What is it?" Molly inquired.
"Only a note from Denis—to say he'll be late." Nell spoke slowly. She twisted the paper in her hands with a feverishness, a restlessness oddly in contrast with her slow speech. She turned and went downstairs to the kitchen.
"Sarah, who brought that note just now?"
"A boy, miss."
"What sort of boy?"
"A urchin, miss, up to no good, I should say."
Nell wandered aimlessly to the dresser and played with a plate.
"Did he look disreputable, Sarah?"
"Awful, miss," delightedly revelling in her word-painting, "sort of boy the pleece 'ud be after, I should say."