“That will do,” she said.  “I’m not going out just yet.  I—­I have some notes to write; don’t bother me now.”

Her voice sounded strange.  She glanced quickly at the maid, fearing to surprise a look of suspicion.  It seemed impossible that that cracked voice of hers would pass unnoticed.  But the maid bowed, carefully placed a pair of white gloves by the hat and jacket, and went out as if nothing had happened.

Dorothy, left alone, stood still for a moment as if robbed of all volition.  Then, with a suppressed cry, she dragged out the accusing document and carried it to the light.  Who could do such a thing!  Who would be such a lying coward!  Her helplessness made her rage.  Oh, to be able to confront this traducer, this libeler.  To see him punished, to tell him to his face what she thought of him I Somewhere he was in the world, laughing to himself in the safety of his namelessness—­knowing her futile anger and indignation—­satisfied to have shamed and insulted her—­and her mother—­her great, resourceful, splendid mother, away and ill when this dastardly attack was made.  Impulsively she turned to run to her aunt, and lay the matter before her, but paused and sat down on the little chair before her writing desk.  Covering her eyes with her clenched hands she tried to think.  Tante Lydia was worse than useless, scatterbrained, self-centered, incapable.  What would she do?  Lament and call all her friends in conclave; send in the police; acknowledge her fright, and give this nameless writer the satisfaction of knowing that his shaft had found its mark?

Teddy!  Teddy would come to her at once.  But what could he do?  Sympathy was not what she wanted; it was support and guidance.  With a trembling hand she smoothed the paper before her and, controlling herself, reread every word with minutest care.  But this third perusal left her more at sea than before.  What did this enmity mean?  What could have incited it?  Why did this wretch give her such minute instructions?  She knew of no safe in the library—­could it be just possible that such a thing did exist?  Could it be possible that this liar had obtained knowledge of her mother’s private affairs to such an extent that he knew of facts that had remained unknown even to her?—­the daughter!  A new cause for fear loomed before her.  Had this venomous enemy access to the house?  Was he able to come and go at will, ferreting out its secrets?

Dorothy turned about quickly, almost expecting to see some sinister shadow leering at her from the doorway, or disappearing into the wardrobe.  Her terror had something in it of childish nightmare.  Acting as if under a spell of compulsion, she rose and tiptoed to the door.  She looked down the hall, and found it empty.  The querulous voice of Mrs. Mellows came to her, raised in complaint against hooked-behind dresses.  Like a lovely little ghost she flitted down the corridor to the library, paused for an instant with a beating heart, and, entering, closed the door with infinite precautions and shot the bolt.