"There's no date," said Lowney, looking at the paper. "It was not in an envelope—"
"Then how did it reach my husband?"
"Oh, of course, it came in an envelope, I suppose, but I found none with it. So we can't tell where it was sent, here or to one of his clubs or to his office address."
"Not here, I'm sure," said Mrs. Schuyler. "Probably to his club. You are quite welcome to the letter, Mr. Lowney. Make what use you think best of it. If it serves to establish Miss Van Allen's innocence, I shall be rather glad. But if it seems to throw further suspicion on her, then justice must be done."
"Of course, it throws suspicion on that woman!" declared Miss Rhoda
Schuyler, with a vindictive glance at the letter in Lowney's hand.
"The hussy, to write to Randolph at all!"
"But," I interposed, unable to stand this unjust speech, "Mr. Schuyler must have made advances to her first."
"She lured him on. I've heard you say yourself, Mr. Calhoun, that this
Van Allen person is a siren, a—"
"Now, now, Miss Rhoda," I began, but the other sister chimed in.
"Of course she is! Of course, the wrong was mostly hers. And she killed Randolph, I know it! Why, the waiter man saw her! Go ahead, Mr. Lowney, hunt her down, and bring her to account. I never shall sleep peacefully until my brother's death is avenged! I cannot understand, Ruth, how you can be so indifferent."
A flush rose to Ruth Schuyler's cheek, and, enlightened anew to her husband's character by that letter, I began to feel a different sort of sympathy for the widow.