“Why did not you call on me at home?”
“Because of your mother. She would probably have been a little inquisitive. Let us go into some place—a tea-room—where we can talk,” she suggested. “I have come to see you concerning Mr. Henfrey.”
“Where is he?” asked Dorise, in an instant anxious.
“Quite safe. He arrived in Malines yesterday—and is with friends.”
“Has he had my letters?”
“Unfortunately, no. But do not let us talk here. Let’s go in yonder,” and she indicated the Laurel Tea Rooms, which, the hour being early, they found, to their satisfaction, practically deserted.
At a table in the far corner they resumed their conversation.
“Why has he not received my letters?” asked Dorise. “It is nearly a month ago since I first wrote.”
“By some mysterious means the police got to know of your friend’s intended visit to Brussels to obtain his letters. Therefore, it was too dangerous for him to go to the Poste Restante, or even to send anyone there. The Brussels police were watching constantly. How they have gained their knowledge is a complete mystery.”
“Who sent you to me?”