He ceased speaking. Elinor was beside him. He rose to his feet, hastily, confused. It was no little thing that he had told; it was a thing that he had never meant to tell. It had come to his lips, as a parable; because of the way he felt toward the child that was not his; because to her it would never have meant anything; and because of the things inside that had struggled for outlet so long. He wondered if she had heard, and hearing, had understood.... He could not tell.... She spoke to Muriel. "Run in to Mawkins, dear," she instructed. Then, as the child, obedient, scampered from the room, she turned to Blake, thrusting toward him a letter, and concluded: "Read that." [Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. A LETTER. Blake took the letter. With its taking there came to him a premonition that the things that he had suspected--the things that he had heard--the things that to him were as unbelievable, as utterly absurd, and ridiculous, and impossible, as might be the vainest imaginings of the vainest, had been proven true. Over the first of the letter, he skipped cursorily.... At length he found John Schuyler's name. The passage relative to the name was brief. He read it, slowly, word by word. Then he handed back the letter to Elinor. She had seated herself, waiting. One knee was crossed over the other; and over the upper, her hands were clasped. She was eyeing him keenly, closely, eyes half closed, brows contracted. To her Blake turned. "Well?" he interrogated. "I've known Martha Dale for sixteen years. She, Kathryn, and I were children together.... I think you knew her, too.... She's not the woman to make a charge like that unless it's true." Blake shrugged his shoulders. A great pain shot through his heart; a great numbness clamped his brain. He had heard things himself. He had seen people who themselves had seen, or thought that they had seen. One man he had knocked down. With two more, his good friends, he had quarreled irrevocably. And in his own soul, something had told him that it was he who was wrong. He said to Elinor; even as over and over and over he had said to himself: "There's some mistake. There must be some mistake. It's impossible." She eyed him shrewdly. "There's no mistake" she returned. "She talked with him. She saw him with this woman. They were at the same hotel where Martha stayed. And the morning after she came, they left.... There's no mistake." "But Jack wouldn't do a thing like that," he protested. "You're a bad liar, Tom. You knew." "No!" he cried. "You did. You know you did.... How long have you known this thing and kept it from those who should be told?" "Who should be told?" "Kathryn." "No!" "But I say yes!" She went on, almost fiercely: "Do you think I'll have my sister--the sister whom I love better than anyone in the whole world-- fooled and shamed and disgraced and dishonored by a man like that?" He raised his hand, protestingly. "You wouldn't tell her!" he cried.