Having triumphantly secured the last word, she turned to busy herself with the tea-tray, and Esther, knowing the uselessness of argument, went on toward the house. Aunt Amy attempted to follow but was stopped by Mary.
"Amy, what did that doctor want here?"
"He came to see me."
Mary laughed. "Likely!" she said. "This tea is quite cold. Was it he who left the letter for Esther?"
"Esther didn't have a letter. I had one."
Again the incredulous laugh, and the dull red mounted into Aunt Amy's faded cheeks. She clutched the treasured letter tightly under her dress. This mocking woman should never see it! But as she turned again to leave her, another consideration appealed to her unstable mind. Mary suspected Esther—and nothing would annoy her more than to find herself mistaken. On impulse Aunt Amy flung the letter upon the tea-tray.
"There it is. Read it, if you like. It has nothing to do with Esther. Or any one else. I found it in one of your mother's old trunks."
Left alone, Mary Coombe drank her tea, which after all was not very cold. She was not really interested in the letter, now that she had got it. Had not a vagrant breeze tossed it, obtrusively, upon her lap, she would probably not have looked at it.
Listlessly she picked it up, opened it, glanced at the firm, clear writing….
A sharp, tingling shock ran through her. It was as if some one had knocked, loudly, at dead of night at a closed door! That writing—how absurdly fanciful she was getting!