"Yes," he nodded once more.
"And you had no answers," she went on more calmly. "Did you ever wonder why?"
"Why?" he echoed in surprise. "Because you were offended—because I had been so rough—"
"No," said she very positively. "Simply and solely because we never received your letters."
"What?" cried Westhove.
"They never reached us. Our servant William seems to have had some interest in keeping them back."
"Some interest?" repeated Frank, dully, bewildered. "Why?"
"That I do not know," replied Eva. "All I know is this: our maid Kate—you remember her—came crying one day to tell me that she could not stay any longer, for she was afraid of William, who had declared that he would murder her. I inquired what had happened; and then she told me that she had once been just about to bring up a letter to Papa—in your handwriting. She knew your writing. William had come behind her when she was close to the door, and had snatched it from her, saying that he would carry it in; but instead of doing so he had put the letter into his pocket. She had asked him what he meant by it; then they had a violent quarrel, and ever since she had been afraid of the man. She had wanted to tell me a long time ago, but dared not for fear of William. We questioned William, who was rough and sulky, and considered himself offended by our doubts of his honesty. Papa had his room searched to see if he had stolen any more letters or other things. Nothing, however, was to be found, neither stolen articles nor letters. Not even the letter to Papa, which seems to have been the last of the three you wrote."
"It was," said Frank.
"Of course Papa dismissed the man. And—oh, what was it I wanted to tell you?—I cannot remember.—So you wrote actually three times?"