“Anything else?” asked Cologne. “Remember we are consolidating now—no more secrets?”
“Yes. I know how that man knew about Jean having her check,” said Nita Brant. “The old fortune teller used to wait for Jean and that day she had seen her go to the post-office, and get the letter. She kept Jean talking on her way back until the man got farther up in the woods, to wait for her. Jake got her purse back yesterday from a place where the Shebad woman had pawned it. And we learned, too, that Jean purposely dropped that scrap of paper near Dorothy’s door to worry her.”
This was nothing to laugh at. And the bright faces turned serious.
“Now, Dorothy,” and Cologne looked into the blue eyes of her friend, “you have a letter to read to us.”
Dorothy had not yet read Jean’s note, and she objected to doing so first in public.
“But Jean left a note to me saying she insisted on her letter being read,” went on Cologne.
Then Dorothy was compelled to yield.
Everyone sat up quietly while the message from Jean, like a sad note from another world, was read.
Dorothy began:
“My Dear Companions:
“I am going away. I can no longer be a pupil of any boarding school, and I deeply regret that I made such poor use of my time while I had the chance to do better. While I had plenty of money I felt no responsibility, but since my uncle’s failure, and the showing to me of his true character, I feel more like a woman than a girl. I want to apologize for any disturbance I made at Glenwood, particularly to Dorothy Dale, whom I thought it was sport to distress. It is I, and not Dorothy, who will now have to go out into the world to work. But perhaps in that I may be able to give up the nonsense I have been lately plunged into, and in which, my own dear mother never took part. I could say much more but take this message and—good-bye.
“Jean.”