June threw away the cigarette and tried to raise Esther.
“What are you talking about? He did write to you––you told me yourself that he wrote beautiful letters––he sent you that money––Esther! what do you mean?”
Esther looked up; for a moment June caught a glimpse of misty, shamed eyes.
“They weren’t from him: those letters––the money never came from him,” she said in a stifled voice.
“What! My good child, have you gone out of your mind?”
June was a hundred miles from guessing the truth. “If he didn’t write them, then who in the world did?” she demanded crisply. “And if he didn’t send the money, who in the wide world....”
She caught her breath on a sudden illuminating thought.
“Esther ... not––not––Micky!”
“Yes.” It was the smallest whisper, and it was followed by a tragic silence; then June got up and began walking aimlessly about the room; she felt as if she had been robbed of all breath.