“Don’t touch it!” he exclaimed; and when she nodded her head in sign that she had read it, he said, speaking earnestly and rapidly:
“I suppose I have no right to hold this message; I must send the man to the hotel telegraph office with it. But where is Chauvenet? What is his business in the valley? And what is the link between Vienna and these hills?”
“Don’t you know what you are doing here?” she asked, and he flushed.
“I know what, but not why!” he blurted irritably; “but that’s enough!”
“You know that Baron von Marhof wants to find Mr. John Armitage; but you don’t know why.”
“I have my orders and I’m going to find him, if it takes ten years.”
Shirley nodded and clasped her fingers together. Her elbows resting on the high arms of her chair caused her cloak to flow sweepingly away from her shoulders. At the end of the room, with his back to the portieres, stood Oscar, immovable. Claiborne reexamined the message, and extended it again to Shirley.
“There’s no doubt of that being Chauvenet’s writing, is there?”
“I think not, Dick. I have had notes from him now and then in that hand. He has taken pains to write this with unusual distinctness.”
The color brightened in her cheeks suddenly as she looked toward Oscar. The curtains behind him swayed, but so did the curtain back of her. A May-time languor had crept into the heart of April, and all the windows were open. The blurred murmurs of insects stole into the house. Oscar, half-forgotten by his captor, heard a sound in the window behind him and a hand touched him through the curtain.