It was very short—only a few lines:
“To Rev. H. Salis,
“I think you ought a know bout yure sister and her goins hon, ask her ware she is goin hout tow nite at 12 ’clock wen ure abed.
“A Nonnymus.”
Mary’s countenance looked drawn and old as she let the note fall in her lap.
“For Heaven’s sake don’t look like that, Mary,” cried Salis angrily. “I beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!”
He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.
“That’s how the writer ought to be served,” he cried. “Now, bed.”
He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to speak; and then, after an affectionate “good night,” he sought his own room.
“It would be cowardly—cruel,” he said, “to take notice of such a letter as that. I can’t do it.”