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have seen it, for that would make it plain to him that I know of his . . . his friendship for you. You are the only person in the world who is aware of the . . . knowledge I have—and no one else will ever learn it from me.”

She handed Vera the letter, and turned away while the older woman moved towards the window to read it. The screen of short, black curtains hid them from the eyes of passers-by in the street, but above the curtains the evening light filtered grayly into the dim little showroom. For a few minutes the rustling of the paper as Vera turned the sheet was the only sound within the room. Then she laid the letter down on the table beside her.

“Did he know that you were likely to be mixed up in a divorce case when he wrote that?” she asked, in a strange hard voice.

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t mind?”

“He didn’t believe there was cause for the action—any more than you believe it.”

“Have you answered this letter?”

“Not yet.”

“What are you going to say?”

Ann had already seated herself at her desk. After a moment she rose, and crossing to Vera, handed her a sheet of paper on which a few lmes were written.

“Is this your answer?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to read it?”

“Please. And perhaps you’d post it for me.”

She addressed an envelope and stamped it, while Vera’s eyes passed over the written words.

She drew a deep breath as she finished reading.