When we _did_ come down the concierge stepped
forward with a twisted little feminine note for Amelia. She took
it and read it. Her countenance fell. "There, Charles," she cried,
handing it to him, "you've let the chance slip. I shall _never_ be
happy now! They've gone off with the diamonds."
Charles seized the note and read it. Then he passed it on to me.
It was short, but final:--
"Thursday, 6 a.m.
"DEAR LADY VANDRIFT--_Will_ you kindly excuse our having gone off
hurriedly without bidding you good-bye? We have just had a horrid
telegram to say that Dick's favourite sister is _dangerously_ ill of
fever in Paris. I wanted to shake hands with you before we left--you
have all been so sweet to us--but we go by the morning train,
absurdly early, and I wouldn't for worlds disturb you. Perhaps some
day we may meet again--though, buried as we are in a North-country
village, it isn't likely; but in any case, you have secured the
grateful recollection of Yours very cordially, JESSIE BRABAZON.
"P.S.--Kindest regards to Sir Charles and those _dear_ Wentworths,
and a kiss for yourself, if I may venture to send you one."
"She doesn't even mention where they've gone," Amelia exclaimed,
in a very bad humour.
"The concierge may know," Isabel suggested, looking over my
shoulder.
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