“At an auction of second-hand junk in New York,” explained Irene.  “Uncle Peter knows that I love the old-fashioned books best but I’m sure he didn’t realize what a good collection this is.”

As she spoke, Irene was listlessly running through the leaves of two or three volumes she had not before examined, when in one of them her eye was caught by a yellowed sheet of correspondence paper, tucked among the pages at about midway between the covers.  Without removing the sheet she leaned over to examine the fine characters written upon it and presently exclaimed in wondering tones: 

“Why, Mary Louise!  Here is an old letter about your mother—­yes, and here’s something about your grandfather, too.  How strange that it should be—­”

“Let me see it!” cried Mary Louise, eagerly stretching out her hands.

But over her friend’s shoulder Irene caught the expression of Agatha Lord—­tense, startled, with a gleam of triumph in the dark eyes.  It frightened her, that look on the face of one she had deemed a stranger, and it warned her.  She closed the book with a little slam of decision and tucked it beside her in her chair.

“No,” she said positively, “no one shall see the letter until I’ve had time to read it myself.”

“But what was it about?” asked Mary Louise.

“I don’t know, yet; and you’re not to ask questions until I do know,” retorted Irene, calmly returning Miss Lord’s curious gaze while addressing Mary Louise.  “These are my books, you must admit, and so whatever I find in them belongs to me.”

“Quite right, my dear,” approved Agatha Lord, with her light, easy laugh.  She knew that Irene had surprised her unguarded expression and wished to counteract the impression it had caused.

Irene returned the laugh with one equally insincere, saying to her guest: 

“Help yourself to whatever books you like, neighbor.  Carry them home, read them and return them at your convenience.”

“You are exceedingly kind,” answered Agatha and resumed her examination of the titles.  Mary Louise had not observed the tell-tale expression on Miss Lord’s face but she was shrewd enough to detect an undercurrent of ice in the polite phrases passing between her companions.  She was consumed with curiosity to know more of the letter which Irene had found in the book but did not again refer to it in the presence of their visitor.

It was not long before Agatha rose to go, a couple of books tucked beneath her arm.

“Will you ride with me to Millbank to-morrow?” she asked, glancing from one face to another.

Mary Louise looked at Irene and Irene hesitated.

“I am not very comfortable without my chair,” she said.

“You shall have the rear seat all to yourself, and it is big and broad and comfortable.  Mary Louise will ride with me in front.  I can easily drive the car up here and load you in at this very porch.  Please come!”