"Loved him devotedly."
"Then what possible reason could she have for deserting him? Why should she——"
A knock at the door interrupted me. Mrs. Lawrence, who was sitting nearest it, rose quickly and opened it. I caught a glimpse, in the semi-darkness of the hall, of a woman in a maid's cap and apron. She gave her mistress a letter, whispering, as she did so, a swift sentence in her ear.
I heard Mrs. Lawrence's low exclamation of surprise, as she held the letter up to the light and read the superscription. Then she turned swiftly toward us, her face pale with emotion.
"It's a note!" she cried. "A note from Marcia! It will explain!" and she handed the envelope to Curtiss.
"A note?" he stammered. "Addressed to me?"
"In Marcia's writing. Read it. It will explain," she repeated.
He took it with trembling hand, went to the window, and tore it open. I saw his lips quivering as he read it; I saw the white intensity with which Mrs. Lawrence watched his face; I was conscious, too, of another presence in the room, and I glanced around to see that the maid stood leaning forward in the open doorway, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, her mouth working, her hands clasping and unclasping convulsively. There was something sinister in her dark, expressive face, in her attitude—something almost of exulting, of triumph——
Curtiss crushed the letter in his hand with a quick movement of despair, and turned to us distraught, flushed, astounded.
"It tells nothing," he faltered; "nothing. It—it—I can't believe it! Read it, Mr. Lester," and he held the sheet of paper toward me.