"Yes, a wrinkled, stooping old hag, gathering sticks in the wood. I gave her a pretty start, I can tell you," cries the boy, laughing at the remembrance.
"Ah, then, it is a souvenir of the old witch you have brought me," says the countess, smiling.
"You have guessed it, Vera. You must be a witch yourself," cries Hal, in high glee with himself and her. "Here it is, a letter with an elegant yellow cover—a begging letter, of course," he adds, with a ludicrous assumption of wisdom.
A start of repulsion goes over Vera as she takes the coarse envelope in her hand.
She holds it unopened in her hand a moment, wondering at her own nervousness.
"Are you afraid to open it, Vera?" laughs the boy. "Let me do it for you, then. The old hag was very mysterious over it, I can tell you. She bade me tell no one of the letter, not even papa and mamma. You see how clever I was, getting you away from Bessie and the children."
Lady Vera has torn the coarse envelope open by this time. A half sheet of paper falls out into her hand. On it is clearly and plainly written these lines:
"If Lady Fairvale would gain possession of the lost memorandum-book, let her come down beyond the lodge-gates, half a mile along the road at dusk this evening. Let her come alone and unwatched, or she will accomplish nothing. One will be in waiting who will restore the memorandum-book, and claim the reward."
Thus it ends. Hal looks curiously at her pale, grave face.