"I've a letter, sir, a letter from her again."
Mark stared at the boy and recognized him at once as a messenger who had given him a note from Mary Adams about a month ago. And he sprang to his feet in surprise.
"She writing again!" he whispered. "Quick, give it to me."
He broke the seal, stepped to the tent door, where, in the white moonlight, he could read every letter plainly. And this was what he saw:
"Dear Mr. Mallory: Oh, once more I have to write you to call upon you for aid. You cannot imagine the terrible distress I am in. And I have no one to call upon but you. If you respect me as a woman, come to my aid to-night and at once. And come alone, for I could not bear to have any one but you know of my terrible affliction. Oh, please do not fail me! You may imagine my state of mind when I write you like this. And let me call myself
Your friend,
"Mary Adams."
Mark finished the reading of that letter in amazement, even alarm.
"Did she give you this?" he demanded of the boy.
"Yes, sir, she did, not five minutes ago," replied the lad. "And she told me to run. She seemed scared to death, sir, and I know she'd been crying."