CHAPTER XII. . But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. All right really. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. But in the early days of her abduction, she did not allow him to touch her. You hurt the child.
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