“Yes, madam,” Biddle said just as wearily, and left her through the flue of the larger fireplace, near her bed.
While she wrote her letter, she sipped the coffee and ate two pastries. By the time she was done, she had several pages of jagged, large writing, and her lines had tended to slant down. Her poor handwriting would have to be excused because she had to rush this off. She'd had to include everything she'd learned about Saint Germain, after all, plus as much detail about last night's attack as she could. She'd used up all the parchment, but had found no envelope.
Biddle's return was announced by the fire dancing slightly. “There was no Night Hawk, madam.”
“Well, then, here,” she held out the letter which she had carefully folded in thirds. “Be careful with it as I couldn't find an
