It was my duty to copy the thing. It was, therefore, necessary that I should read it. It bore no date and no address. It began:--"My dearest Amelia." Who was my dearest Amelia? A glance sufficed to show me that it was a love-letter, and a love-letter of an uncommon kind. Clearly, there had been some blunder. Such an epistle could not intentionally have been lumped with that olla podrida of scraps and scrawls. It was out of place in such a gallery. What was I to do?
The question was answered for me. While I still hesitated, Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor reappeared. I said nothing, but I daresay that the expression of my features and the gingerly style in which I held the letter out in front of me, conveyed a hint that I had lighted on something out of the way. Probably, too, she recognised the letter directly she caught sight of it, even from the other side of the room. Anyhow, she came striding forward--she was a woman who could stride--and, without any sort of ceremony, leaning across the table, she snatched it from my hand. For an instant I expected she would strike me--she was in such a passion. The veins stood out on her brow like bands; her lips gave convulsive twitches.
Since it seemed that rage had deprived her of the faculty of speech, I endeavoured to explain the situation by feigning ignorance that there was a situation to explain.
"Do you wish me to copy this letter in the same way as the others?"
My voice was suave; hers, when it came, was not.
"You beast!" That was the epithet which she was pleased to hurl at me. "I might have guessed you were a thief!"
"Madam!"
Her language was so atrocious, and her anger, so far as I was concerned, so unjustifiable, that I knew not what to make of her.
"Where did you steal that letter?"
I stood up. "Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor, you go too far. You appear to be under the, I assure you, erroneous impression that, in engaging a man to fill the honourable post of your secretary, you buy him body and soul to do as you will."