"How do you know that?"
"Don't you remember her mother's last words to me? She said it would be for Curtiss to decide."
"Yes, I remember. And I think there's no question as to what his decision will be."
"No," I agreed. "Most men would be glad to get Marcia Lawrence upon any terms."
"Not Curtiss—but then he's desperately in love. Maybe he'll be willing to recede a shade or two from his ideal."
"He won't have to recede," I asserted confidently. "She's spotless, whatever the secret."
"I hope so," agreed our junior slowly. "Well, they'll have to fight it out together when they meet on the other side. If I were Curtiss, I'd be mighty shaky about that meeting."
"And I. Of course," I added, "the whole mystery hinges on that letter from New York. Godfrey imagined he knew the contents, but the event showed how wide he was of the mark. He had a theory that the letter was written by a disreputable, blackmailing husband of the girl, whom she'd believed dead. That was his theory from the first—the only possible explanation, he called it. Then, when he found that a picturesque stranger had asked the way to the Kingdon cottage, he immediately concluded that the letter had appointed a rendezvous, and that Miss Lawrence had kept it. All of which was afterwards shown to be mere moonshine."
"Not the first part of it," Mr. Royce objected. "There's been nothing to disprove that."
"Nor anything to prove it."