Then and there an active idea—­one with bones in it—­raced and overtook me, and I shot out:  “Where is that letter?”

“Mother has it,” replied Peggy.

“Have you opened it?”

“No.”

“Has Aunt Elizabeth opened it?”

“Oh no!”

“Did Charlies Edward take it with him?”

“I don’t think he did.  I will go ask mother.”

“Go ask mother for that letter,” I commanded, “and bring it to me.”

Peggy gave me one mutinous look, but the instinct of a younger sister was in her and she obeyed me.  She brought the letter.  I have this precious document in my pocket.  I asked her if she would trust me to find out to whom that letter was addressed.  After some hesitation she replied that she would.  I reminded her that she was the only person in the world who could give me this authority—­which pleased her.  I told her that I should accept it as a solemn trust, and do my highest and best with it for her sake.

“Peggy,” I said, “this is not altogether a pleasant job for me, but you are my little sister and I will take care of you.  Kiss your old Meddlymaria, Peggy.”  She took down her sopping handkerchief and lifted her warm, wet face.  So I kissed Peggy.  And I am going on the 7.20 morning train.

It is now ten o’clock.  My suit-case is packed, my ticket is bought, but Tom has not come back, and the worst of it is he can’t get back to-night.  He telephoned between courses at his dinner that he had accepted an invitation to go home for the night with one of the men they are dining.  It seems he is a “person of importance”—­there is a big order behind the junket, and Tom has gone home with him to talk it over.  The ridiculous thing about it is that I forget where he was going.  Of course I could telephone to the hotel and find out, but men don’t like telephoning wives—­at least, my man doesn’t.  It makes it rather hard, going on this trip without kissing Tom good-bye.  I had half made up my mind to throw the whole thing over, but Peggy is pretty young; she has a long life before her; there is a good deal at stake.  So Tom and I kissed by electricity, and he said that it was all right, and to go ahead, and the other absurd thing about that is that Tom didn’t ask me for my New York address, and I forgot to tell him.  We are like two asteroids spinning through space, neither knowing the other’s route or destination.  In point of fact, I shall register at “The Sphinx,” that nice ladies’ hotel where mere man is never admitted.

I have always supposed that the Mrs. Chataway Aunt Elizabeth talks about kept a boarding-house.  I think Aunt Elizabeth rolls in upon her like a spent wave between visits.  I have no doubt that I shall be able to trace Aunt Elizabeth by her weeds upon this beach.  After that the rest is easy.  I must leave my address for Tom pinned up somewhere.  Matilda’s mind wouldn’t hold it if I stuck it through her brain with a hat-pin.  I think I will glue it to his library table, and I’ll do it this minute to make sure. ...  I have directed Matilda to give him chicken croquettes for his luncheon, and I have written out the menu for every meal till I get home.  Poor Tom!  He isn’t used to eating alone.  I wish I thought he would mind it as much as I do.