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 may stab us, but never the loyal friend. Now that she
thought it all over, she was glad that she had repeatedly fought the
impulse to lay the matter before her sister. She would trace this
letter home first; she would find out upon what authority it was
written; there would be time enough after that to confront Kate, or
Warrington, or John. Ah, if she had stepped forward in the dark, to
wreck her brother's life needlessly. ... Heliotrope! She would never
forget that particular odor, never. She had a good idea of justice,
and she recognized the fact that any act on her part, against either
Kate or Warrington, before she found the writer of the letter, would
be rank injustice. Persons can not defend themselves a