"Oh, did he?" moaned the girl, crimson to the eyes. "Did you read it?"
"Read it, May? Of course not!" was the answer, delivered with admirable appearance of indignation; "but I knew the handwriting."
May was by this time so shaken by sobs and so miserable that her condition was pitiful. Mrs. Neligage glided to a seat beside her, and took the girl in her arms in a fashion truly motherly.
"There, there, May," said she soothingly. "Don't give way so. We must do something to straighten things out."
"Oh, do you think we could?" demanded May, looking up through her tears. "Can't you get that letter away from him?"
"I tried to make him give it to me, but he refused."
It really seemed a pity that the widow was not upon the stage, so admirably did she show sympathy in voice and manner. She caressed the tearful maiden, and every tone was like an endearment.
"Somebody must get that letter," she went on. "It would be fatal to leave it in the Count's possession. He is an old hand at this sort of thing. I knew about him abroad."
She might have added with truth that she had herself come near marrying him, supposing that he had a fortune to match his title, but that she had luckily discovered his poverty in time.
"But who can get it?" asked May, checking her tears as well as was possible under the circumstances.