But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender devotion through this terrible time?
“Dear, kind Austin,” she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with which he had acceded to her request. “He never fails me in the slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover.”
In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass.
She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her reveries by the entrance of Grant.
“The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her name, is here. Miss,” he told her. “She won’t give any name now; merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown her into the drawing-room.”
Sheila’s face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to her mysterious visitor.
The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila’s entrance. It was easy to see she was terribly nervous.
“I am speaking to Miss Monkton, am I not? I must apologise for intruding upon you, but I shall not keep you more than a few seconds. I came just to ask you, to know if—if—” she stammered so that she could hardly get her words out.
“You wanted to know if—?” repeated Sheila encouragingly. She was terribly excited herself, but the calmer of the two.
“Did you receive a portrait of a friend of yours, Lady Gladys Rainham, the envelope containing it directed in a strange handwriting?”