Mechanically he tore it open and glanced at the bottom of the page for his unknown correspondent's name.
"Robert Lyle," he read, aloud, with a suddenly quickened heart-beat.
Yes, it was from Robert Lyle—a brief note, coldly and curtly written.
"Captain Ernscliffe," it simply ran, "I arrived in this city to-day with your wife. She is now quite well and prepared to defend her case at any time the lawyers agree upon—to-morrow, if necessary."
That was all. It was brief, cold, and to the point. Yet the reader's heart thrilled with sudden joy.
"She is here in this city; she is well," he said to himself. "Oh, how can I wait until to-morrow?"
But he waited, nevertheless, though burning with anxiety and impatience, and at the earliest permissible hour he was shown into Robert Lyle's private parlor at the hotel where he was stopping.
Mr. Lyle was sitting cozily over his morning paper and cigar, his slippered feet on the fender, his gorgeous dressing-gown wrapped comfortably around him.
He rose in some surprise as his unexpected visitor was ushered in.