“There’s some one knocking at my door.”
Some one was beating a tattoo upon the panel.
“So there is; and some one in a hurry, it would seem. Perhaps it’s Symonds. If so, you might make a clean breast of it at once. I’ll corroborate with what I know. Then she need never fear arrest at all.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE LETTER
But it was not Symonds. It was a messenger-boy—an impertinent young rascal.
“Mr. John Ferguson? I thought every one was out, I’ve been knocking for the last ten minutes.”
“Have you indeed? I trust the delay has caused you no serious inconvenience. Yes, I am Mr. John Ferguson.”
“No answer.”
He thrust an envelope into my hand, and, turning on his heel, was about to march away. I caught him by the shoulder.
“Pardon me—one second! From whom does this communication come?”