Dear Mother:
A lengthened pause followed, then she added:
I’ve read your postscript with interest—
She paused again, and continued:
I see no connection between the mysterious hand and the poisoning of Dwight Tilghman. Don’t bother the coroner with any wild theories. And I wouldn’t speak of being in the train-shed without a porter, it might get you into trouble with the railway officials.
Much love, darling Mother, to you and Dad.
Your devoted
Ethel.
Taking up an envelope Ethel addressed and sealed it and searched among her papers for her stamp book. Finding it at last she placed a special delivery as well as a two-cent stamp on the letter, and paused undecidedly. The letter, if left on the table in the lower hall, would be posted before seven o’clock by the butler, and she could not rest until she knew that her warning was on its way to her mother. She had given orders to have her breakfast served in her bedroom, and if she kept the letter it might not get mailed before noon.
Ethel crossed the room and opening her hall door peered cautiously into the corridor. A solitary electric light was burning at the head of the staircase, and Ethel, leaving her bedroom door ajar, stole along the corridor and down the staircase. She had reached the table in the large front entrance hall, had placed her letter upon the silver card tray and was returning toward the staircase when the sound of a window being raised sent her heart into her mouth.