“Then you haven’t been able to make it out!” she remarked, breathing more freely. “You don’t know to what it refers?”
“No,” I responded frankly. “I am in ignorance. But if you will remain a moment I’ll go to my room and fetch it.”
“You need not,” was her reply. “It is quite unnecessary.”
“Why?”
“Well, because I chance to know what is contained in it, and that there was nothing of importance.”
Did she imply that she had written that secret message herself? I glanced at her countenance, and somehow became convinced that she was still bent upon the concealment of the truth, a conviction that was both irritating and tantalising.
Mystery had succeeded mystery, until I admit that I was now overcome by blank bewilderment.