“Morris gave me the letters through the window,” I answered. “There were only two for father. One was from Mr. Hewitt—that was about the schools you know, and the other was from somewhere in South America. It was that letter which took him to London.”
She looked at me with knitted brows, and a general expression of perplexity.
“From South America! I never heard father speak of any one there.”
“From South America,” I repeated. “It was a large square envelope, and the writing was very fine and delicate.”
“I wonder,” Alice suggested, thoughtfully, “whether we have any relatives out there of whom we do not know. It may be that. Perhaps they are poor, and—”
I interrupted her.
“This letter was not from a poor person,” I declared, confidently. “The notepaper, or rather the envelope, was expensive, and in very good style. I believe there was a crest on the envelope.”
“Still,” Alice remarked, “we cannot be certain—especially if the letter was from South America—that it was the cause of his going to London.”
“I think we can,” I answered. “In one corner there were three words, written very small—“London about fifteenth.”
We exchanged glances.