“Sent by whom?”
“By the signore’s friend—a signorina inglese.”
“Her name?”
“The Signorina Mortimer.”
Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face.
“She has sent you. Why?”
“To deliver to you an urgent message,” was the man’s response. “I have here a credential.” And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm.
From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully.
What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment.
The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead—the little curl he had so faithfully treasured.