She had told the maid to put it there when it came.

It was from Mimo, saying Mirko was feverish again--really ill, he feared, this time.
So poor Zara spent a night of anguish and prayer, little knowing what the morrow was to bring.
And Tristram went out again to the Turf, and tried to divert his mind away from his troubles.

There was no use in speculating any further, he must wait for an explanation which he would not consent to put off beyond the next morning.
So at last the day of a pitiful tragedy dawned.
Zara got up and dressed early.

She must be ready to go out to try and see Mimo, the moment she could slip away after breakfast, so she came down with her hat on: she wanted to speak to her uncle alone, and Tristram, she thought, would not be there so early--only nine o'clock.
"This is energetic, my niece!" Francis Markrute said, but she hardly answered him, and as soon as Turner and the footman had left the room she began at once: "Tristram was very angry with me last night because I was out late.

I had gone to obtain news of Mirko, I am very anxious about him and I could give Tristram no explanation.