Scarce crediting his senses, he read them again,
word by word, striving to extract from their cryptic sentences that
hidden meaning which lay beneath. Outspoken as the solicitor was, he
had evidently left unsaid the major portion of the strange story within
his ken. The new correspondent, too, might or might not be the man whom
Dick had seen in Hyde Park and at Charing Cross Station. But the same
curious guardedness was apparent in each missive. The lawyer dealt in
generalities; the private detective merely asked for the corroboration
of a single detail in the statement which, doubtless, awaited Mr.
Fenshawe's perusal among the letters now piled on a table by the side
of Miss Fenshawe's chair.
At the thought, Dick turned and looked at Irene. She was smiling at
some quip or bit of lively news in a closely-written sheet. Near her,
Mrs. Haxton was engaged more deeply. The letter clasped in her long
slender fingers was as obviously a business document as Irene's was the
crossed and interlined product of a feminine pen overflowing with
gossip.
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