“Of course, madame.” La Montagne emphasized his remarks with gesticulations eminently characteristic of his race. “It was my misfortune that Evelyn was away, and through some inadvertence my cable had not been forwarded to her. I had but a few hours in Chelsea, but upon my return to duty I wrote to Evelyn a letter requiring a reply, and I sent it by what you call ‘registered’ post.”
“And she answered the letter?”
“No.” In spite of his effort to keep his tone expressionless the monosyllable betrayed emotion.
“Then you can take it that Evelyn never received your letter,” exclaimed Marian vehemently.
“You think not!” La Montagne’s face lighted, then fell. “But how is that within the possible? The return card bore her signature of receipt.”
Marian stopped and stared at the Frenchman. “Her signature? Are you quite sure?”
“Oui, madame. I have read her few letters too often to be mistaken,” retorted La Montagne. “She signed the receipt.”
Marian resumed her walk up the street, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “Where did you send the letter?” she asked.
“To Burnham Lodge, Chelsea, New Jersey.”
Marian quickened her pace to avoid being run down by a speeding automobile as they crossed Massachusetts Avenue.