Cecil read thus far, and then looked up with a horrified face.
“Lady Haigh!” she gasped, “every one of my letters has missed, as well as Charlie’s. What can it be?”
“Impossible, my dear!” cried Lady Haigh, briskly. “You must have mistaken what he says. Is his letter from home?”
“It isn’t from him even now,” said Cecil. “It’s from Mrs Anstruther. There must have been some dreadful mistake, and what can we do?”
“I think this concerns you rather than myself, Miss Anstruther,” said Sir Dugald, coming into the room. “I hope I haven’t read much of it, but I really did not see at first that the letter which I was desired under such fearful penalties to deliver to you was on the same sheet as my own.”
He held out a letter in Charlie’s writing, which Cecil almost snatched from his hand. As he said, the first page was occupied by an earnest request to him to give the letter into Miss Anstruther’s own hands, as the writer could not help thinking that there had been foul play hitherto with regard to their correspondence. The other three pages contained the letter proper, closely written, and overflowing with passionate anxiety.
“My darling,” Charlie concluded, “I am certain there must be something wrong, or you would never have left me without a line all these months. I heard from D’Silva the other day that that fellow Karalampi had been at the Residency a good deal lately, and I should not wonder if he had something to do with it. I do entreat you not on any account to trust him in the very smallest matter. The man is capable of anything. I am consumed with anxiety about you. I was talking yesterday about going out at once to see you and find out what was the matter, but your father said I should only bring you into trouble, and entreated me not to think of such a thing. Dearest, you know I would do anything rather than get you into trouble; but if I can be of the very smallest help or use to you, let me have a wire, and I will start at an hour’s notice. Only write, my darling, or I shall go mad.”
Cecil dropped the letter with a groan, which attracted the attention of Sir Dugald, who had considerately been discussing his own letters with Lady Haigh while she read it.
“Anything wrong, Miss Anstruther?” he asked, kindly.
“Our letters!” groaned Cecil, “his and mine. Neither of us has ever received one of them, and we have both written once a-week.”