THE YELLOW DOVE
at her again and she could not refrain from answering the smile in kind.
“I hope the Fräulein will enjoy her lunch,” he said. “The toast especially, for I have made it myself. I trust that the Fräulein prefers dry toast.”
“Thanks, anything will do. I am not hungry.”
“I am sorry,” said the Forester, bowing and then continuing in a lower tone: “The Fräulein will not forget that the toast is excellent and that I made it myself.”
She examined him curiously, wondering whether he were not perhaps a little demented. But at the door he bowed and disappeared and she heard the key turn in the lock. He was apparently not too demented to forget that she was a prisoner.
She was not hungry but she knew that she must eat something to keep up her strength for any ordeal that was in store for her, so she drew a chair to the table and sat, pouring out the chocolate in the cup and helping herself to the eggs.
All the while she thought of the strange behavior of her servitor. Why did he lay such stress upon the excellence of the dry toast? And why because it was dry? She raised a piece of it with her fingers and examined it, lifted the second piece, when a gasp of surprise escaped her. Above the third piece of toast, folded neatly, was a thin strip of paper. She glanced toward the door and window and then getting up from the table and going to a spot where observation of her actions was impossible, opened the slip of paper. It was in Cyril’s hand.
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