That frightened her.
“If nothing has happened to him——” she murmured, and looked from one to the other; from Mr. Bishop’s smug face to the landlady’s stolid visage.
“It’s not what has happened to him,” the runner answered bluntly. “It is what is likely to happen to him.”
He drew from his pocket as he spoke a large leather case, unstrapped it, and put the strap, which would have handily spliced a cart-trace of these days, between his teeth. Then he carefully selected from the mass of papers which the case contained a single letter. It was written, as the letters of that day were written, on three sides of a square sheet of coarsish paper. The fourth side served for envelope—that is, it bore the address and seal. But Bishop was careful to fold the letter in such a way that these and the greater part of the writing were hidden. He proffered the paper, so arranged, to Henrietta.
“D’you know the handwriting,” he asked, “of that letter, miss?”
She had watched his actions with fascinated eyes, and could not think, could not imagine, whither they tended. She was really frightened now. But her mettle was high; she had the nerves of youth, and she hid her dismay. The hand with which she took the letter was steady as a rock, the manner with which she looked at it composed; but no sooner had her eyes fallen on the writing than she uttered an exclamation, and the colour rose to her cheeks.
“How did you get this?” she cried.
“No, miss, no,” the runner answered. “One at a time. The question is, Do you know the fist? The handwriting, I mean. But I see you do.”
“It is Mr. Stewart’s,” she answered.
He glanced at Mrs. Gilson as if to bespeak her attention.