“But, see here, the letter was mine!” Morton exclaimed. “Where do I come in?”
“It is my confession, is it not?—and hasn’t a woman the right to choose the time when she makes it? You shall know everything—when the right time comes.”
She turned to the little lawyer. “I believe that is all, Mr. Loveman.”
“But the letter?” he prompted.
She understood. “You definitely promise?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then”—and slowly, all eyes upon her, Mary tore the sealed letter up and dropped the pieces into the waste-basket.
There was a moment’s pause. Each of the four had his own belief as to the revelation in that letter she had so calmly torn to fragments. As for Mary, she was outwardly composed enough; she believed that the crisis with Loveman was safely passed—perhaps; but every second she was poignantly aware of the danger represented by that motionless girl who still held the marriage certificate in her hand. Mary could not guess what that emotional, jealous, pampered girl would do, nor at what instant she would do it.
Mr. Morton turned from Mary to Jack and Maisie. “Run along, children,” he said pleasantly, “and do whatever it was you were planning to do. I may pick you up later somewhere.”
Almost mechanically the girl walked out. With a quick glance of fear at Mary, Jack went after her—and Mary followed her with her eyes, wondering.