"Hello!" cried the first man, starting back. "What's this?"
The line stopped, and I moved forward.
"What is it?" I asked.
"A message for you, Mr. Wilton," said a voice suddenly from the recess
of the doorway.
"Give it to me," I said.
A slip of paper was thrust into my hand, and I passed up the stairs.
"I'll wait for you," said the messenger, and at the first gas-jet that
burned at the head of the stairs I stopped to read the address.
It was in the hand of the Unknown, and my fatigue and indifference were
gone in a moment. I trembled as I tore open the envelope, and read:
"Follow the bearer of this note at 12:30. Come alone and armed. It is
important."
There was no signature.
If this meant anything it meant that I was to meet the Unknown, and
perhaps to search the heart of the mystery. I had been heavy with
fatigue and drowsy with want of sleep, but at this thought the energies
of life were once more fresh within me.
With my new-found knowledge it might be more important than even the
Unknown was aware, that we should meet. To me, the map, the absence of
Darby Meeker and his men, the mysterious hints of murder and death that
had come from the lips of Mother Borton, were but vaguely suggestive.
But to the Unknown, with her full knowledge of the objects sought by
the enemy and the motives that animated their ceaseless pursuit, the
darkness might be luminous, the obscurity clear.
The men had waited a minute for me as I read the note.
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