She sprang up and lifted it down to the hearth.
"Oh, and I forgot!" Her hand went back to her bodice again.
"Mr.Jack Rogers was here this morning inquiring for you.

He drove up in his tilbury, and said he was on his way to Plymouth.

But he left this note." I took it and deciphered these words, scrawled in an abominable hand: "Meet me to-night, nine o'clock, at the place where we parted.
J.R." "Was Mr.Rogers going to Plymouth ?" I asked.
"Yes, and in a hurry, by the pace he was driving." As you may guess, this news discomposed me.

Could Mr.Rogers be preparing a trap?
No: certainly not for me.

Whitmore, if anyone, was his quarry.