“This is serious indeed,” said Sir Dugald. “About sixty letters altogether, and spread over more than six months! Well, it is quite evident what has happened, though I confess I should scarcely have thought the game worth the candle in this case. They have been tampering with the mail-bags again.”
“Tampering—who?” cried Cecil.
“Interested parties, I presume,” said Sir Dugald, drily. “Some post-office clerk who is learning English and likes to study it by means of other people’s letters, possibly, but I should scarcely think so. It’s an old trick, and they have tried it several times here, but not just lately.”
“But can you get the letters back?” asked Cecil.
“Scarcely, I’m afraid. They would be much too compromising to be allowed to remain in the thief’s possession. No; but we may be able to stop the robberies in future. I will communicate with Constantinople at once, and set the Embassy to work. Shall we make the abstraction of your love-letters a casus belli, Miss Anstruther?”
“It isn’t a laughing matter to me,” said Cecil, dolefully.
“No, nor to poor Egerton either,” said Sir Dugald. “It was a most happy thing that he thought of writing to you under cover to me, or we might never have found out how the trick was worked. You see they have simply suppressed all Egerton’s letters to you, and all yours directed to him. Your home letters have arrived as usual, have they not? I thought so. Well, suppose you set Egerton’s mind at rest by telegraphing him a Christmas message at once. I think I can guarantee that it won’t go astray from here.”
Cecil accepted gratefully Sir Dugald’s suggestion, and despatched a sufficiently lengthy message. This done, she had leisure to think over the strange fate of her letters. She could not doubt that their disappearance had been arranged by the same hand that had contrived Charlie’s removal from Baghdad, and yet it seemed scarcely likely that Azim Bey would have thought of such a thing. Charlie’s suggestion as to M. Karalampi she scouted at once, for what motive could he have for abstracting her letters, even though he had an old grudge against her, and no liking for Charlie? But M. Karalampi was destined to be brought to her mind once again that evening, when she went to have tea with Mrs Hagopidan, of whom she had seen but little of late.
“So I hear you have set up another admirer, Cecil?” said the hostess, when she had inquired and heard the latest news from Whitcliffe.
“I don’t know what you mean, Myrta,” said Cecil, laughing.