“There was no envelope.”
“What!” Polly half rose then dropped back in her seat. “No envelope? Then how did you get the letter?”
Mrs. Hale looked carefully around to make sure that no one had entered the boudoir or was within earshot. Her next remark ignored Polly’s question.
“I have not shown Austin’s letter to my husband,” she began. “Mr. Hale does not always view matters from my standpoint, and he might be displeased at my having mentioned to Austin that he was disappointed in Judith’s choice of a husband. Therefore, Polly, you will say nothing to him.”
“Certainly not,” agreed Polly. “But about the letter—”
“Nor mention the letter to Judith,” pursued Mrs. Hale, paying no attention to Polly’s attempt to question her. “I shall not discuss it with Judith, for she might readily resent my writing Austin to find out something about her husband’s career before he entered the army in 1917. This letter”—Mrs. Hale picked it up, refolded it, and replaced it in her purse—“must remain a secret between you and me.”
“But, Mrs. Hale,”—Polly stopped her as she was about to rise—“where did you get the letter and who tore off the last sheet?”
“It is for us to find out who tore it off and what became of it,” declared Mrs. Hale. At last Polly was roused out of herself, and the older woman observed with interest the two hectic spots of color in her cheeks. “And why the sheet was torn off.”
The opening of the boudoir door caused Polly to start nervously, a start which, in Mrs. Hale’s case became a jump, as Richards addressed them from the doorway.
“Maud is looking for you, Mrs. Hale,” he announced. “Luncheon is waiting for you.”