furnish abundant proof that she was seen to leave his apartments one morning.  This is not penned with malice.  It is simply that the writer knows and admires you and can not stand passively by and see you humiliated by the attentions of a man who is unworthy to lace your shoes.  As for your sister-in-law, I have no desire to meddle.  Confront both her and Warrington, if the truth of the above statement is doubted by you.

Upon these last words depended Patty’s attitude.  It must be true.  Whoever had written this abominable letter could write plain English, despite the disguised hand.  Patty recognized that it was disguised.  The capitals differed, so did the tails of the y’s and f’s; the backhand slant was not always slanting, but frequently leaned toward the opposite angle.  She had but to confront them!  It seemed simple; but to bring herself to act upon it!  She reviewed all the meetings between Kate and Warrington.  Never had her eyes discerned evidence of anything other than frank good fellowship.  She searched painfully; there was not a single glance, a single smile upon which she could build a guilty alliance.  And yet this writer affirmed ...  Oh, it was monstrous!  Those rumors she had heard months ago!  The telephone call from McQuade!  Ah, that telephone call!  Had Kate been guilty would she have confided to her, Patty?  She seemed to be pulled, now forward, now backward.  McQuade knew something, the wretch! but what?  This letter had never been written by him.  A man would have used a pronoun, third person, masculine; he would have shown some venom back of the duplicity that affirmed an interest in her welfare.

The tears dried quickly; the heat of her renewed rage burned them up.  She set about to do something she had not thought of doing before—­investigating.  She held the note-paper to the sun.  The water-mark of a fashionable paper manufacturer was easily observable.  Men did not write on that brand.  So much gained.  Then she recalled a French play in which a perfume had convicted a person of theft.  She held the envelope to her nose; nothing, not even tobacco.  She tried the letter itself.  Ah, here was something tangible:  heliotrope, vague, but perceptible.  Who among her friends used heliotrope on her kerchief?  She could not remember; in fact, any or all of them might have worn it, so far as she could recall.  She would go over her invitations and visitors’ cards; she would play detective; she would ferret out as a spy who took this amiable interest in her future.  This determination brightened her considerably.  And woe to the meddler if Patty found her!  If it was a baseless lie (and she hoped against hope in her loyal little heart!) she would make a pariah of the writer of this particular anonymous letter.  True or not, what was it to her?  What right had she to interfere?  She was cowardly; of that Patty was certain.  True friends are the last in the world to inflict sorrow upon us.  Kith and kin