"DEAR MISS BRANDT,--I wrote to you a few days ago, giving you
the information of our dear friend Lady Elspeth's sudden summons
to Inverstrife, to attend her niece, the Countess of Assynt.
"I hope you will not consider it presumption on my part to
express the fear that my letter has somehow miscarried--probably
through some oversight of my own, or carelessness on the part of
the postal authorities.
"You will, I know, be glad to hear that Lady Elspeth
accomplished her journey in safety and without undue discomfort.
But Lady Assynt's condition makes it probable that her stay may
be somewhat prolonged.
"I venture to hope that you may regret this as much as I do. All
who enjoyed Lady Elspeth's friendship and hospitality cannot but
miss her sorely.
"I hope, however, that I may still have the pleasure of meeting
you occasionally elsewhere. When one has not the habit of
readily making new friendships one clings the more firmly to
those already made.--Sincerely yours,
"JOHN C. GRAEME."
That letter he dropped into the Pixley letterbox himself that night,
and so was assured of its delivery. But two days passed in waning
hope, and the afternoon of the third found him on the doorstep of No.
1 Melgrave Square.