Once the letter was in his hand, her arms dropped to her sides, tense.

It was best so, to have it over with at once. To crush the thought of him out of her heart for ever, such a remedy was necessary. She watched him. His hand fell slowly. It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the whiter.

"You speak of love to me?"

He stood there, stunned. His silence spoke eloquently to her. He was guilty. She leaped to this conclusion at once, not realizing that no man can immediately defend himself when accused so abruptly.

"You speak of love!" Her wrath seemed to scorch her lips. "My poor brother!"

Warrington straightened. "Do you believe this?" He threw the letter aside, as if the touch contaminated him, caring not where it fell.

"Is it true?"

"An anonymous letter?" he replied, contemptuously.

"I know who wrote it."

"You know who wrote it? Who?" There was terrible anger in his voice now.

"I decline to answer."

"So you give me not even the benefit of a doubt! You believe it!"

Patty was less observant than usual. "Will you please go now? I do not think there is anything more to be said."

"No. I will go." He spoke quietly, but like a man who has received his death-stroke. "One question more. Did McQuade write that letter?"

"No."

He picked up his hat. "So much for my dreams! Deny it? Deny calumny of the anonymous order? No! Defend myself against such a lie? No!"

He walked from the room, his head erect. He did not turn to look at her again. The hall door closed. He was gone.

Chapter XIX

Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and recrossing Williams Street.

Tragedy has the same prerogative as love and death--the right to enter the palace or the hovel, into the heart of youth or age. It was not a killing to-day, only a breaking of hearts, that is to say, the first step. Tragedy never starts out on her rounds roughly; she seeks her cause first; she seeks her anonymous letter, her idle hands, her lying tongue; then she is ready. Tragedy does nothing hastily; she graduates her victim.

Warrington stumbled rather than walked home. When he reached the opposite curb he slipped and fell, bruising his hands. ... Deny it?

Deny it when convicted without trial? There are never any proofs to refute a letter written by an unknown enemy. There is never any guard against the stab in the back. ... He and Kate! It was monstrous. And John? Did John know? Did John see that letter? No, Patty surely had not shown it to John. He knew John (or he believed he did); not all the proofs or explanations Heaven or earth could give would convince John, if that letter fell into his hands. ... And he was to speak at a ma.s.s meeting that night! G.o.d! He stumbled up the steps to the door. He was like a drunken man. ... Patty believed it; Patty, just and merciful, believed it. If she believed, what would John, the jealous husband, believe? There were so many trifling things that now in John's eyes would a.s.sume immense proportions. ... In less than half an hour the world had stopped, turned about, and gone another way. He opened the door. As he did so a woman rushed into the hall.

"Richard, Richard, I thought you would never come!"

"You, and in this house alone?" His shoulders drooped.

Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was, how dull his eye, how abject his whole att.i.tude. She caught him by the sleeve and dragged him into the living-room.

"Richard, I am dying!" she cried. She loosened the collaret at her throat. "What shall I do, what shall I do?"

He realized then that he was not alone in misery.

"What is it, girl?" stirring himself.

"Listen, d.i.c.k!" She dropped into the old name unconsciously. She had but one clear thought; this man could save her. "Some time ago--the night you and John went down town together--I received a telephone call from that vile wretch, McQuade."

"McQuade?" Warrington's interest was thoroughly aroused by that name; nothing else could have aroused it.

"He said that if I did not persuade you to withdraw your name before the convention met he would not oppose the publication of a certain story concerning my past and yours. Horrible! What could I do? I remained silent; it was Patty's advice. We were afraid that John would kill McQuade if we told him." She let go of his arm and paced the room, beating her hands together. "Think of the terror I have lived in all these weeks! Half dead every evening when John came home; not daring to read the papers; afraid of calling on my few friends! I have never, in all my life, done an evil action, either in thought or deed.

What terrible gift is this that G.o.d gives to some people to make truth half a truth and half a truth a lie? Read this!"

It was a half-sheet of ordinary office paper, written on a typewriter.

Its purport was similar to the one he had read but a few minutes since. Only it was bolder; there were no protestations about anybody's welfare. It was addressed to John Bennington.

"Great G.o.d! another anonymous letter! Do you know who sent this?"

"I can think of no one but McQuade; no one!" frantically. "Save me, Richard! I love him better than G.o.d, and this is my punishment. If John sees this, I shall die; if he doesn't kill me I shall kill myself! I opened it by mistake. I am so miserable. What has happened?

What have I done that this curse should fall on me? When I came to this city I expected to find rest in the house of the man I loved. ...

Patty does not come over. ... What have I not suffered in silence and with smiles? I have seen them whispering; I have seen covert smiles, and nods, and shrugs. I knew. I was an actress. It seems that nothing too bad or vile can be thought of her who honestly throws her soul into the greatest gift given to woman. An actress! They speak of her in the same tone they would use regarding a creature of the streets.

Well, because I loved my husband I have said nothing; I have let the poison eat into my heart in silence. But this goes too far. I shall go mad if this thing can not be settled here and now. It is both my love and my honor. And you must do it, Richard; you must do it."

"You say McQuade called you up by telephone?"

"Yes."

He struck his forehead. The carbon sheet! He ran to his desk, pulled out all the drawers, tumbling the papers about till he found what he sought. From the letter to the faint imprint on the carbon sheet and back to the letter his eyes moved, searching, scrutinizing.

"Look!" with a cry of triumph.

"What is it?"

"Do you see that mutilated letter T?" He indicated with his finger on the dim carbon sheet.

"Yes, yes!"

"Compare it with the letter T in this note."

She did so, her hands shaking pitifully. "I can't see, Richard."

"That carbon sheet came from McQuade's office; so did that letter to John. And now, by the Lord! now to pull out Mr. McQuade's fangs, and slowly, too." He pocketed the two sheets. "Come!" His hat was still on his head.

"Where, Richard?"

"To John."

"No, no! John?"