"And in it you said that you were called to Boston by an accident to your son Willie in his automobile: that you might not be able to get back in time for to-night's affair and wouldn't I take it over," protested Mrs. Van Raffles, vehemently.
"I?" said Mrs. Shadd, showing more surprise than was compatible with her high social position.
"And attend to all the details—your very words, my dear Pauline," said Henriette, with an admirably timed break in her voice. "And I did, and I told you I would. I immediately put on my travelling gown, motored to Providence, had an all-night ride to New York on a very uncomfortable sleeper, went at once to Herr Jockobinski's agent and arranged the change, notified Sherry to send the supper to my house instead of yours, drove to Tiffany's and had the cards rushed through and mailed to everybody on your list—you know you kindly gave me your list when I first came to Newport—and attended to the whole thing, and now I come back to find it all a—er—a mistake! Why, Pauline, it's positively awful! What can we do?"
Henriette was a perfect picture of despair. "I don't suppose we can do anything now," said Mrs. Shadd, ruefully. "It's too late. The cards have gone to everybody. You have all the supper—not a sandwich has come to my house—and I presume all of Mr. Jockobinski's instruments as well have come here."
Henriette turned to me.
"All, madame," said I, briefly.
"Well," said Mrs. Shadd, tapping the floor nervously with her toe. "I don't understand it. I never wrote that note."
"Oh, but Mrs. Shadd—I have it here," said Henriette, opening her purse and extracting the paper. "You can read it for yourself. What else could I do after that?"
Innocence on a monument could have appeared no freer of guile than Henriette at that moment. She handed the note to Mrs. Shadd, who perused it with growing amazement.
"Isn't that your handwriting—and your crest and your paper?" asked Henriette, appealingly.