She held out her hand for it.
“We are at your mercy,” said she. “Is this from Lord Edward himself?”
“I know nothing of it, madame,” said I, and recounted the story of how I had come by the missive in the wood near Morlaix.
She sighed, and said,—
“John Cassidy is happier where he lies than we are. Is this your only missive?”
“No; I have a letter for Mr Lestrange, and beg you to tell me his address.”
At that moment she looked round, and gave a little scream as first a footstep, then a voice, fell on her ear.
“Adèle,” said a lean, bilious-looking man, with a hard, pinched face and knit lips, approaching from one of the side-walks—“Adèle, what do you here?”
“My husband,” said the lady, so far recovering her composure as to smile and advance to meet him, “you are come in a good moment. This lad bears a missive for you, and, having discovered me in the crowd, was begging me to deliver it for him. Here it is.”
Duport took the letter with a frigid glance at me as if to say he believed not a word of the story, and mechanically tore it open.