They were standing together in the deep bay of the old-fashioned window, half hidden by the heavy curtains. The room was filled with the gay chatter of the visitors, and he now saw his opportunity to speak to her.
“Signorina,” he said in a low whisper, “a friend of mine is our mutual friend.”
“I don’t understand you?” she inquired, starting in surprise, and glancing quickly at him.
“Charles Armytage,” young Gregory answered. “He was staying with me until about a fortnight ago. Then he left suddenly.”
“Well?”
“He doesn’t dare to write to you here, but has written to me.”
“Where is he?” she inquired eagerly.
“Abroad,” the young man replied hurriedly. “In his letter to me yesterday, he asked me to call here at once, see you, and tell you that he is in Brussels; and that if you write, address him at the Poste Restante.”
“He is still there?” she asked. “Then a telegram to-day—now—would reach him?”
“Certainly,” her young companion replied. “He says he will send me word the moment he changes his address, and asks me to request you to write. He says it is unsafe, however, under the circumstances, for him to respond to your letter.”