ere could be no mistake. Then fear came upon her. The abrupt
entrance of the maid, carrying her hat and veil, gave her a spasm of
panic. No one must see, no one must know. The wretched sender of this
hideous libel must believe it ignored--never received. She thrust the
paper hastily into the bosom of her dress. Its very contact seemed to
burn.

"That will do," she said. "I'm not going out just yet. I--I have some
notes to write; don't bother me now."

Her voice sounded strange. She glanced quickly at the maid, fearing to
surprise a look of suspicion. It seemed impossible that that cracked
voice of hers would pass unnoticed. But the maid bowed, carefully placed
a pair of white gloves by the hat and jacket, and went out as if nothing
had happened.

Dorothy, left alone, stood still for a moment as if robbed of all
volition. Then, with a suppressed cry, she dragged out the accusing
document and carried it to the light. Who could do such a thing! Who
would be such a lying coward! Her helplessness made her rage. Oh, to be
able to confront this traducer, this libeler. To see him punished, to
tell him to his face what she thought of him I Somewhere he was in the
world, laughing to himself in the safety of his namelessness--knowing
her futile anger and indignation--satisfied to have shamed and insulted
her--and her mother--her great, resourceful, splendid mother, away and
ill when this dastardly attack was made. Impulsively she turned to run
to her aunt, and lay the matter before her, but paused and sat down on
the little chair before her writing desk. Covering her eyes with her
clenched hands she tried to think. Tante Lydia was worse than useless,
scatterbrained, self-centered, incapable. What would she do? Lament and
call all her friends in conclave; send in the police; acknowledge her
fright, and give this nameless writer the satisfaction of knowing that
his shaft had found its mark?

Teddy! Teddy would come to her at once. But what could he do? Sympathy
was not what she wanted; it was support and guidance. With a trembling
hand she smoothed the paper before her and, controlling herself, reread
every word with minutest care. But this third perusal left her more at
sea than before. What did this enmity mean? What could have incited it?
Why did this wretch give her such minute instructions? She knew of no
safe in the library--could it be just possible that such a thing _did_
exist? Could it be possible that this liar had ob