CHAPTER XXV.
THE LETTER
Following on the heels of her first shock came disappointment. She reached the three story building where Thorne and Foster had established temporary office to find the door of the office locked and a sign tacked to the outside door panel which bore the information: “Gone for the day.”
“Who told them they could go?” she sulkily muttered. “Wait till I see that pair. All they do is loaf and rob me. They’re slackers. That old cotton-top Bean has working for her is worth more than a dozen of these slackers.”
Leslie swung petulantly down the one flight of stairs to the street. The wind whistled in her face causing her to duck her head into her high fur collar.
“It’s too cold to drive back to the campus,” she concluded. “I’ll run the car into the garage and hunt for cover. The hotel for me tonight. I’ll go there and stay there.” She promised herself that next day she would make it a point to go to the garage site and see what was going on. She could pick up Doris then at the Colonial and take her back to town.
She drove to the garage, saw the car housed and battled her way against the wind the distance of one block to the hotel. At the desk the clerk handed her a letter. Leslie stared at the address in fascination. Her face turned as nearly white as its swarthiness would permit. Her lips moved as though she were trying to speak and could not. Her hands shook so violently she dropped the letter on the tessellated marble floor.
She bent to retrieve it, and nearly lost her balance. Sight of certain black, jagged handwriting all but drained her of strength. She walked to the door of the elevator steadily enough, but her knees weakened under her as she stood and waited for what seemed an age for the descending cage.
“Great Scott!” she breathed in a voice not quite steady as the door of her room closed behind her. She stumbled over to a chair and fell into it. “I never had such a wobbly time in all my life before,” she said aloud again. “I’m glad to see that writing.”
Leslie was so staggered at seeing again the characteristic handwriting of Peter Cairns she had only one idea. Her father had written her a letter. In the exultant glow she experienced as she tore open the envelope she lost her first panic of agitation.