Jacynth had counted confidently on a return telegram from Fenella as soon as possible, and he was annoyed and disappointed when another day dragged slowly by without any news of her. Did she harbor so much resentment against Lord Francis, that she would not even come to him when their child was in danger? Jacynth’s anger burned a little at the thought. He could not believe that Fenella would be thus implacable. And Ronny was distinctly worse, he was feverish, and wandered in his talk, calling out for “Mummy” and imploring to be taken away from Mrs. Clutterbuck in a way that was pitiful to hear. There were hints, too, of that darker time when he had been left alone with men and women of a coarser type--brutes in human guise, who starved and beat him and swore at him because he would neither lie nor steal. This part of his story his friends had striven to make him forget, but when his brain was clouded by fever, the frightful images of those terrible weeks in a New York slum came back to him with redoubled force, and it sometimes seemed as though only the presence of the mother for whom he cried so constantly could chase them away. And yet Fenella did not come. On the third day Jacynth waxed desperate, and resolved to telegraph again. He had seen in the newspapers some accounts of a gale which had been raging in the Channel, and it occurred to him that the Guernsey boats might perhaps have ceased running, which would of course give a reason for Fenella’s silence, and yet it seemed to him impossible that she should have heard nothing yet, or been unable to send him any answer. He would telegraph again, but he would go to Onslow first; it was possible--just possible--that she might have written to _him_. From the look of agitation on Frank’s face, and the convulsive tightness with which he grasped a letter in his hand, Jacynth fancied at first that his conjecture had been correct. “What is it?” he said hurriedly. “Your wife--is she coming? Does she know that you are safe?” “Heaven knows! She makes no sign. No, the letter is not from her.” His face was so pale, his aspect so disordered, that Jacynth could only gaze at him in surprise. And seeing his expression, Frank suddenly thrust the letter into his hand. “See there,” he said. “What does it mean? Do you think there is anything in it? If it should be true--of Fenella, my darling--what have we done?” And he sank down in a chair beside the table, and buried his face in his hands. Jacynth opened the letter, which was written on coarse blue paper, and inclosed in a common envelope. Outside it looked like a tradesman’s circular. There was no stamp, no postmark; it was simply superscribed with Onslow’s name, and addressed to the hotel. The writing was evidently disguised, many of the words were printed, others written in a sloping hand.