"That. I found it when I came back from the opera."
He recognized the writing at once, and before he was halfway through his rage against Pancha was boiling. When he had finished he could not trust his voice, and staring at the paper, he heard her say:
"I've known for some time Chrystie was troubled and not herself, and this afternoon when I saw her go I knew something was wrong. She looked ill; she could hardly speak to me. And then that came, and I telephoned to the Barlows'—the place she was going. She wasn't there, they'd never asked her, never expected her. She's gone somewhere—disappeared." She raised her voice, hard, threatening, her face angrily accusing, "Where is she, Mr. Mayer? Where is she?"
He knew it all now, and his knowledge made him master.
"Miss Alston, I'm very sorry about this—"
"Oh. don't talk that way!" she cried, pointing at the letter. "What does that mean?"
"I think I can explain. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessary trouble and taken this thing," he scornfully dropped the letter on the table, "altogether too seriously. Sit down and let me straighten it out."
He pointed to the rocker, but she did not move, keeping her eyes with their fierce steadiness on his face.
"How could I take it too seriously?" she said.
"Why"—he smiled in good-natured derision—"what is it? An anonymous letter, evidently by the wording and the writing the work of an uneducated person. It's perfectly true that I've seen your sister several times on the streets, and once I did happen upon her when she was taking a walk in the plaza by the Greek Church. But there's nothing unusual about that—I've met and talked with many other ladies in the same way. The writer of that rubbish evidently saw us in the plaza and decided—to use his own language—that he'd have some fun with us, or rather with me. The whole thing—the expression, the tone—indicates a vulgar, malicious mind. Don't give it another thought, it's unworthy of your consideration."