“No,” he said briefly. “I met her accidentally about two months ago and as accidentally found out that she had taken an interest in one of the first things I ever wrote for your paper. She neither knew you nor me. It was then that she told me this story; she did not even then know who I was, though she had met some of my family. She was very good and has generously tried to help me.”
Fletcher's eyes remained fixed upon him.
“But this tells me only WHAT she is, not WHO she is.”
“I am afraid you must inquire of her brother, Mr. Shipley,” said Harcourt curtly.
“Shipley?”
“Yes; he is traveling with her for his health, and they are going south when the rains come. They are wealthy Philadelphians, I believe, and—and she is a widow.”
Fletcher picked up her note and glanced again at the signature, “Constance Ashwood.” There was a moment of silence, when he resumed in quite a different voice: “It's odd I never met them nor they me.”
As he seemed to be waiting for a response, John Milton said simply: “I suppose it's because they have not been here long, and are somewhat reserved.”
Mr. Fletcher laid aside the manuscript and letter, and took up his apparently suspended work.
“When you see this Mrs.—Mrs. Ashwood again, you might say”—