“Wilkins? Your man? No! Go yourself. This matter is too grave to trust to any one. Go quick.”
Under the spell of her command, Caruth stepped hastily to the door of the room and flung it open. At the end of the hall the valet was just signing the book of a letter carrier. As Caruth appeared he looked up. “Quick delivery letter for you, sir,” he said.
Caruth took the letter, nodded, and turned back into the room.
The girl was standing where he had left her. Her lips were parted, and her breath came fast. When she saw the letter her eyes glistened and she stretched out her hand.
But Caruth drew back. “One moment,” he exclaimed.
The girl’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “I have explained my claim to that letter. You have no right to keep it. Give it to me at once.” An imperious stamp of her foot put a period to her words.
A weaker man would have yielded, but Caruth set his jaws. “You have set forth your claim to this letter,” he answered coldly, “after a fashion. But, if you will pardon my saying so, you have by no means proved your right to it. It may very well have been mailed to me by mistake, and you may know it—without being entitled to it.”
Scornfully the woman stared at him. Her head was thrown back, and the breath whistled through her distended nostrils.
“So!” she breathed, at last. “So this is American manhood! For the first time in my life, my word has been questioned to my face.”
Caruth looked, as he felt, acutely uncomfortable. “No, no!” he protested eagerly. “I don’t question your word. I didn’t know that you had given it. Nobody”—a flash of admiration showed in his eyes—“nobody could look at you and doubt you. I don’t doubt that you have told me the exact facts. But I am also very sure that you have not told me all of them. If the letter does not belong to me, I will willingly surrender it to the real owner. But I might do endless harm by surrendering it to the wrong party. I cannot give it up without knowing more.”