The man came inside.
"Now," she said, "I'll see. What is your name?"
"Ben—" he hesitated. "Oh—that don't matter. Won't be addressed to my name. Addressed like that."
He drew from his pocket a closely-folded, dirt-begrimed envelope.
Marian's heart stopped beating. The envelope was blue—yes, the very shade of blue of that other in the pigeon-hole. And it was addressed: Phi Beta Ki, Nome, Alaska.
"Is there a letter here like that?" the man demanded, squinting at her through blood-shot eyes.
It was a tense moment. What should she say? She loathed the man; feared him, as well. Yet he had asked for the letter and had offered better proof than the mysterious college boy had. What should she say?
"Yes," she said, and then hesitated. Her heart beat violently. His searching eyes were upon her. "Yes, there was one. It came two months ago. A young man called for it and took it away."
"You—you gave it to him!"
The man lifted a hand as if to strike Marian. She did not flinch.