“Well—of course I did.”
“Yes, you naturally would. But if you had no name to write to, how could you answer the letters?”
“Through personal advertisements. She had made out a code. She was a smart one in some ways, I can tell you.”
“Have you any of the letters here?”
“Only the last one.”
“Bring it to me.”
Obediently as an intimidated child, the astrologer left the room, presently returning with a plain sheet of paper with handwriting on one side. Kent, who almost never made a mistake, had forgotten in his absorption in the matter of the document, the presence, even the existence, of Marjorie Blair. He was recalled to himself, with a shock, as he felt her shoulder touch his. Involuntarily he whirled the sheet behind him.
“Let me see the rest of it, please,” she said calmly enough.
Kent nodded. With drooping head, and chin a-twitch, the Master of Stars stood studying them, while they read the letter together. It was in two handwritings, the date, address and body of the letter being in a clear running character, while the signature, “Astræa,” was in very fine, minute, detached lettering. The note read:
“All is now ready. You have but to carry out our arrangements implicitly. The place is known to you. There can be no difficulty in your finding it. At two hours after sundown of July the fifth we shall be there. Our ship will be in waiting. All will be as before. Fail me not. Your reward shall be greater than you dream.
Astræa.”