“And how about yours?” questioned Dorothy, amused.  “What did you get?”

Aunt Lydia bridled.  “Oh, nothing much.  Some cards, a bill or two—­”

“Bill or coo, you mean,” said her niece with a playful clutch at her chaperon’s lap-full of missives.  “If that isn’t a man’s letter, I’ll eat my cap, ribbons and all—­and that one, and that one.”

Mrs. Mellows rose hastily, gathered her flowing negligee about her and beat a retreat.

She turned at the door, “You’re a rude little girl, and I shan’t count on you to go to Bendel’s.  If you want me, I’ll be here from half past two to four, when I go for bridge.”  With the air of a Christian martyr she betook herself to the seclusion of her own rooms.

Dorothy suffered herself to be dressed as she opened her mail.  Aunt Lydia had diagnosed it with almost psychic exactness, and its mystery had ceased to be interesting.  Last of all she opened a plain envelope with typewritten directions.  The enclosure, also typewritten, gave a first impression of an announcement of a special sale, or request for assistance from some charitable organization.  Idly she glanced at it, flipped it over, and found it to be unsigned.  A word or two caught her attention.  She turned back, and read: 

     Miss DOROTHY MARTEEN: 

“That the sins of the parents should be visited upon the children is, perhaps, hard.  But we feel it time for you to understand thoroughly your situation, in order that you may determine what your future is to be.  You have been reared all your life on stolen, or what is worse, extorted money.  We hope you have not inherited the callous nature of your mother, and that this information will not leave you unashamed.  Not a gown you have worn, nor a possession you have enjoyed, but has been yours through theft.  That you may verify this statement, open the steel safe, back of the second panel of the library wall to the left of the fireplace.  The combination is, 2.2.9.6.0.  A button on the inner edge on the right releases a spring, opening a second compartment, where the material of your future luxuries is stored.  A look will be sufficient.  I hardly think you will then care to occupy the position in the lime light to which you have been brought by such means.  Obscurity is better—­perhaps, even exile.  Talk it over with your mother.  We think she will agree with us.

The words danced before Dorothy’s eyes, a sudden stopping of the heart, a hot flush, a painful dizziness that was at once physical and mental, made her clutch at the table for support.  She dropped the letter, and stood staring at it, fascinated, as in a nightmare.

An anonymous letter, a cruel, hateful, wicked atrocity!  Why should she receive such a thing? she, who never in her whole life, had wished anyone ill.  It couldn’t be so.  She had misread, misunderstood.  She picked up the message and looked at it again.  It was surely intended for her, there could be no mistake.  Then fear came upon her.  The abrupt entrance of the maid, carrying her hat and veil, gave her a spasm of panic.  No one must see, no one must know.  The wretched sender of this hideous libel must believe it ignored—­never received.  She thrust the paper hastily into the bosom of her dress.  Its very contact seemed to burn.