He saw he had made an impression. Her eyes left him and she stood gazing fixedly into space, evidently pondering his explanation. In a pleasantly persuasive tone he added:
"You know that I've not been a constant visitor at your house. You've seen my attitude to your sister."
She made no reply to that, muttering low as if to herself:
"Why should anyone write such a letter without a reason?"
"Ah, my dear lady, why are there mischief makers in the world? I'm awfully sorry; I feel responsible, for the person who'd do such a thing is more likely to be known by me than by you. It's probably some servant I've forgotten to tip or by accident given a plugged quarter."
There was a pause, then she turned to him and said:
"But where's Chrystie?"
He came closer, comforting, very friendly:
"Since you ask me I'd set this down as a prank. She's full of high spirits—only a child yet. She's gone somewhere, to some friend's house, is playing a joke on you. Isn't that possible?"
"Yes, possible." She had already found this straw herself, but grasped it anew, pushed forward by him.