fidently, "now that one sees you, Miss Trine, it is quite comprehensible why my employer—ah—feels toward you as he does."
The girl flushed. "Mr. Law has told you?"
"I am his nearest friend on this side, as well as his man of business. So I have ventured to request this—ah surreptitious appointment in order to—ah—take liberty of asking whether you have recently sent Alan a message."
"I have not communicated with Mr. Law in more than a year!"
"Precisely as I thought," Mr. Digby nodded. "None the less, Mr. Law not long since received what purported to be a message from you: In fact—a rose. I have the information over Mr. Law's signature—a letter received ten days ago—from Quebec."
"Alan in America!" the girl cried in distress.
"In response to—ah—the message of the rose."
"But I did not send it!"
"I felt sure of that," said Mr. Digby, watching her narrowly, "because of something that accompanied the rose, a playing card—a Trey of Hearts."
Her eyes were blank. "I must tell you, I see, that a Trey of Hearts invariably foresignalled an attempt on the life of Alan's father."
Her white lips stammered: "My father?"
"That is why I sent for you," Mr. Digby pursued. "Alan's letter reached me within twenty-four hours
