I feared not.

And If there was no H, really, and I married him, where would I be?

There was a ball at the Club that night, and the Familey all went.  No one came to say good-night to me, and by half past ten I was alone with my misery.  I knew Carter Brooks would be at the ball, and H also, very likely, dancing around as agreably as if he really existed, and I had not made him up.

I got the book from Sis’s room again, and re-read it.  The woman in it had been in great trouble, too, with her husband cleaning his revolver and making his will.  And at last she had gone to the apartments of the man who had her letters, in a taxicab covered with a heavy veil, and had got them back.  He had shot himself when she returned—­the husband—­but she burned the letters and then called a Doctor, and he was saved.  Not the doctor, of course.  The husband.

The villain’s only hold on her had been the letters, so he went to South Africa and was gored by an elephant, thus passing out of her life.

Then and there I knew that I would have to get my letter back from H. Without it he was powerless.  The trouble was that I did not know where he was staying.  Even if he came out of a Cabinet, the Cabinet would have to be somewhere, would it not?

I felt that I would have to meet gile with gile.  And to steal one’s own letter is not really stealing.  Of course if he was visiting any one and pretending to be a real person, I had no chance in the world.  But if he was stopping at a hotel I thought I could manage.  The man in the book had had an apartment, with a Japanese servant, who went away and drew plans of American Forts in the kitchen and left the woman alone with the desk containing the Letter.  But I daresay that was unusualy lucky and not the sort of thing to look forward to.

With me, to think is to act.  Hannah was out, it being Xmas and her brother-in-law having a wake, being dead, so I was free to do anything I wanted to.

First I called the Club and got Carter Brooks on the telephone.

“Carter,” I said, “I—­I am writing a letter.  Where is—­where does H. stay?”

“Who?”

“H.—­Mr. Grosvenor.”

“Why, bless your ardent little Heart!  Writing, are you?  It’s sublime, Bab!”

“Where does he live?”

“And is it all alone you are, on Xmas Night!” he burbled. (This is a word from Alice in WonderLand, and although not in the dictionery, is quite expressive.)

“Yes,” I replied, bitterly.  “I am old enough to be married off without my consent, but I am not old enough for a real Ball.  It makes me sick.”

“I can smuggle him here, if you want to talk to him.”

“Smuggle!” I said, with scorn.  “There is no need to smuggle him.  The Familey is crazy about him.  They are flinging me at him.”

“Well, that’s nice,” he said.  “Who’d have thought it!  Shall I bring him to the ’phone?”