“E. M. B.�
What did this meaningless missive prove? That Mrs. Lucien was other than she seemed? Mrs. Wylie could think of no one having those initials. Ah, yes. She did have a friend, long ago, by the name of Emma Boyleson. She could not remember her middle name, or if she had one. It might have been “M.� But she was dead, died a long while ago, when only a little more than a child. And why, if it came from her,—Mrs. Wylie’s instincts denied the possibility,—why should she write such stuff as this? Simply to mystify her? Could she be mistaken in Mrs. Lucien? Could it be possible that she was one of those dreaded charlatans? But if so, how could she have known anything about Emma Boyleson? She had never mentioned her, so far as she could remember, even to Mr. Wylie.
She would arouse Mrs. Lucien and sift this affair thoroughly.
“Mrs. Lucien! Mrs. Lucien!� she said imperatively.
She was gratified to see a change pass over the woman’s face. Mrs. Lucien started, shivered, pressed her hands to her forehead.
“What is the matter, Mrs. Lucien,� again demanded Mrs. Wylie, bending over her.
The dazed woman brushed her eyes and looked about her.
“Have I been asleep?� she asked plaintively.
“Yes, and writing me a letter in your dreams,� chirruped her visitor gaily. “Now you may arouse yourself and interpret it for me.�
Mrs. Lucien shook her head, while the look of awe deepened in her face.