It was such a pleasant, jolly letter, yet Marion almost shivered as she perused it carefully.
It was not until she was putting the letter back in the envelope that she discovered an extra scrap of paper.
The doctor had thought of another word to say, apparently, and there was not room to add it to his already overfilled letter. Marion read the slip of paper with dilated eyes. The news it gave her was, to say the least, extraordinary.
“By the way, Miss Marlowe,” the postscript read, “a little maid servant of mother’s ran away a couple of weeks or so ago, and both mother and myself have worried considerably about her. The cause of our worry is simply that the child had been betrayed and we had hoped to help her in her hour of trouble. I mention this, knowing that such cases land frequently in ‘Charity,’ so please keep your eyes open for such a young lady. Her name is Kittie, and she is about sixteen, and very pretty.”
Marion passed her hand thoughtfully across her brow. She was, if anything, more mystified and astounded than ever.
“If he is guilty, then no words can describe him,” she said, finally, “for he must be a fiend incarnate if he could wrong the girl and then sit down calmly and write such a letter.”
Marion was glad when the hour for duty came. She hurried back to her ward as to a haven of refuge.
That night, after sunset, Marion went out for a walk about the Island. She went alone from preference, as she wished to do some hard thinking.
Young Dr. Brookes had said that he would see her the next day, as he had found an excellent excuse for running over to the Island.
“What shall I say to him?” Marion asked herself as she stood on the sea-wall and gazed out over the water.