“Leave this house. Do not seek this man, Malvano.”
“Why?” he inquired, surprised. “He’s my friend. We have met once or twice since we shot together in Berkshire.”
Again she advanced close to him, so close that he felt her breath upon his cheek, and the sweet odour of lilac from her chiffons filled his nostrils.
“If you absolutely refuse to tell me the reason you have come here to-night, then I will tell you,” she whispered. “You are in fear.”
“In fear? I don’t understand.”
“You have enemies, and you wish to consult the Doctor with regard to them,” she went on boldly. Then, in a voice scarcely audible, she added, whispering into his ear: “You have received warning.”
He started suddenly, looking at her dismayed.
“Who told you? How did you know?” he gasped.
“I cannot now explain,” she answered breathlessly, still holding his arm in convulsive grasp, panting as she spoke. “It is sufficient for you to know the intention of your enemies, so that you may be forewarned against them.”
“Then it is actually true that I’m in personal danger!” he cried. “To my knowledge I’ve never done an evil turn to anybody, and this is all a puzzling enigma. The letter here”—and he drew from his overcoat a note which had been delivered by a boy-messenger at his chambers in Ebury Street—“this letter is evidently written by an Italian, because of the flourish of the capitals: and I came here to-night to ask Malvano the best course to pursue. I’m staying in the neighbourhood, over at Apethorpe.”