Gregson was uneasy. He lighted a cigarette, puffed at it once or
twice, and tossed it through the open door. Suddenly he reached in
his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

"Deuce take it, if I know whether I have or not!" he cried. "But--
look here, Phil. I saw the mail come in to-day, and I walked up as
bold as you please and asked if there was anything for Lord
Fitzhugh. I showed the other letter, and said I was Fitzhugh's
agent. It went. And I got--this!"

Philip snatched at the letter which Gregson held out to him. His
fingers trembled as he unfolded the single sheet of paper which he
drew forth. Across it was written a single line:

Don't lose an hour. Strike now.

There was nothing more, except a large ink blot under the words.
The envelope was addressed in the same hand as the one he had
previously received. The men stared into each other's face.

"It's singular, that's all," pursued Gregson. "Those words are
important. The writer expects that they will reach Lord Fitzhugh
immediately, and as soon as he gets them you can look for war.
Isn't that their significance? I repeat that it is singular this
girl should come here so mysteriously, and disappear still more
so, just at this psychological moment; and it is still more
puzzling when you take into consideration the fact that two hours
before the runner came in from the south another person inquired
for Lord Fitzhugh's mail!"