The man scowled in his sleep and clenched his hand, so that the bread crumbled in it.
"And so I won the prize," he muttered, "just as I told her I would. Did I have any pull? Was there any favoritism? No—you know it as well as I do—it was good work won that prize!"
"Was it a bridge prize?" Caroline inquired maturely. The woman stared.
"A bridge prize?" she repeated vaguely. "Why, no, I guess not. It was for writing a story for one of those magazines. He won a thousand dollars."
The man opened his eyes suddenly.
"And if you don't believe it," he said, still in that strange sing-song voice, "just read that letter."
He pulled a worn, creased sheet from an inner pocket and thrust it at Caroline.
"It's typewritten," he added, "it's easy enough to see if I'm lying. Just read it out."
Caroline glanced at the engraved letter-heading and began to read in her careful, childish voice:
My Dear Mr. Williston: