meet Mrs. Blythe. She, too, would wear her sword of conquest so
hidden, and unbeknown, even to those who walked closest to her side.

Almost feverishly she threw herself into the duties of the next few
days, glad that an accumulation of letters on Mrs. Blythe's desk kept
her busy at the typewriter all morning, and that some investigating for
the Associated Charities kept her tramping about the streets the rest of
the time, until nightfall. She thought that she was hiding her secret so
successfully that no one imagined she had one. She talked more than
usual at the table, she laughed at the slightest excuse, she joined
spiritedly in the repartee at dinner, a time when they nearly always had
guests. But keen-eyed Mrs. Blythe saw several things in the course of
the week. She noticed her lack of appetite, the long spells of
abstraction that came sometimes after her merriest outbursts; the deep
shadows under her eyes of a morning, as if she had passed many sleepless
hours.

Then going into her room one day it occurred to her that Phil's pictures
were missing. There had been several, so prominently placed on mantel,
dressing-table and desk that one saw them the first thing on entering.
Then she noticed that the solitaire was gone from Mary's finger, and was
tempted to ask the reason, but resisted the impulse, thinking that it
was probably because of some trivial misunderstanding which would right
itself in time.

One afternoon, passing through the lower end of the hall, she saw Mary
sitting at the typewriter in the alcove that had been curtained off for
an office. She was about to call to her to stop and get ready for a
tramp before dark, when the postman's whistle sounded across the street.
He was making his four o'clock rounds. It was a rare occurrence for him
to pass the house at this time of day without leaving something. All
winter it had been the hour at which Phil's daily letter was most likely
to arrive. Mrs. Blythe recalled the big, dashing hand in which they were
always addressed, and Mary's radiant face when they arrived.

Now, at the sounding of the whistle, the clicking of keys stopped and
Mary leaned forward to look out of the window, and watch the progress of
the postman down the avenue. He did not cross over. As the cheerful
whistle sounded again, further down the street, she suddenly leaned her
arms on the typewriter in front of her and dropped her head upon them in
such an attitude of utter hopelessness t