Norman Wentworth received in his mail, one morning, a thin letter over which a frown clouded his brow.  The address was in a backhand.  He had received a letter in the same handwriting not long previously—­an anonymous letter.  It related to his wife and to one whom he had held in high esteem.  He had torn it up furiously in little bits, and had dashed them into the waste-basket as he had dashed the matter from his mind.  He was near tearing this letter up without reading it; but after a moment he opened the envelope.  A society notice in a paper the day before had contained the name of his wife and that of Mr. Gordon Keith, and this was not the only time he had seen the two names together.  As his eye glanced over the single page of disguised writing, a deeper frown grew on his brow.  It was only a few lines; but it contained a barbed arrow that struck and rankled: 

     “When the cat’s away
     The mice will play. 
     If you have cut your wisdom-teeth,
     You’ll know your mouse.  His name is ——­”

It was signed, “A True Friend.”

Norman crushed the paper in his band, in a rage for having read it.  But it was too late.  He could not banish it from his mind:  so many things tallied with it.  He had heard that Keith was there a great deal.  Why had he ceased speaking of it of late?

When Keith next met Norman there was a change in the latter.  He was cold and almost morose; answered Keith absently, and after a little while rose and left him rather curtly.

When this had occurred once or twice Keith determined to see Norman and have a full explanation.  Accordingly, one day he went to his office.  Mr. Wentworth was out, but Keith said he would wait for him in his private office.

On the table lay a newspaper.  Keith picked it up to glance over it.  His eye fell on a marked passage.  It was a notice of a dinner to which he had been a few evenings before.  Mrs. Wentworth’s name was marked with a blue pencil, and a line or two below it was his own name similarly marked.

Keith felt the hot blood surge into his face, then a grip came about his throat.  Could this be the cause?  Could this be the reason for Norman’s curtness?  Could Norman have this opinion of him?  After all these years!

He rose and walked from the office and out into the street.  It was a blow such as he had not had in years.  The friendship of a lifetime seemed to have toppled down in a moment.

Keith walked home in deep reflection.  That Norman could treat him so was impossible except on one theory:  that he believed the story which concerned him and Mrs. Wentworth.  That he could believe such a story seemed absolutely impossible.  He passed through every phase of regret, wounded pride, and anger.  Then it came to him clearly enough that if Norman were laboring under any such hallucination it was his duty to dispel it.  He should go to him and clear his mind.  The next morning he went again to Norman’s office.  To his sorrow, he learned that he had left town the evening before for the West to see about some business matters.  He would be gone some days.  Keith determined to see him as soon as he returned.