Evidently Joe had forgotten something.
He found his pipe had gone out during his musing, and taking hold of the paper she had twisted for him, was about to make a lighter out of it again, when he received what seemed to be an electric shock.
A name had caught his eye on the paper. He held it up closer.
Yes, there could be no mistake—it was a note his wife had twisted up—by some mistake it had come into his waste basket.
What was left of it after the burning he read:
“if you can contrive to conceal it from your husband until then, all will be well. I think I can rely upon your discretion—everything goes on well, and our secret is, I believe, safe.
“Faithfully yours,
“Paul Prescott.”
When poor Joe had taken this in he felt as though he had been plunged into an icy bath.
The joyous spirit of contentment that had pervaded his whole being was gone.
Suspicion, jealousy, unrest, came trooping in with renewed force.
His own late experience should have been a lesson to him, but it was not.