So that was the hideous bond that tied them. That was why each pretended an affection for, considered and, if need be, defended the other. They had paid a human life for love and found that crime brought only mutual contempt. Through the realization of what enforced their hostile, yet voluntary companionship came personal anxiety. Her letter--what if he should notice and examine it? Why hadn’t she taken it out and posted it herself? But there was no time to be wasted over futile afterthoughts. She could not chance his reading so much as the address. She must recover her letter. From the head of the stairs she could not see whether or not it still lay on the table, which stood in the hall near the street entrance. She could see, however, that the door marked “PRIVATE” was ajar. As no sound of voices came to her, she concluded that the two in the hateful lockstep must have gone. She counted possible costs, then again descended the stairs. They stood beside the table. Not until she saw their faces would she believe the worst. Not only had he noticed the address of the letter, but had opened and was reading it. A smile was on his face--the æsthetic, pale-eyed, appealing face of Vincent Seff. His agreeable laugh sounded as he turned to Mrs. Hutton. “Of all the chickens to come home to roost in the coop of little Vin! You remember that pugilistic Puritan, John Cabot? As addressed to him, Mary, what can these hieroglyphics mean? Listen: “‘Soon a rosebud will open its petals to the world. I may not stay to care for it. I depend on you.’” Impulse ruled Dolores. She crossed the hall; stretched out her hand for the letter; faced them. “It is mine. You have no right to read it.” For a long moment Seff simply looked at her. Then he took the lavender-bordered ’kerchief from his sleeve and with it wiped his lips. “Well met,” said he at last, “_Miss Nectarine_.” “You have no right to open a sealed and stamped letter intended for the mails,” Dolores insisted. “Will you give it back to me or shall I appeal to the head of this institution?” “Appeal. I am the head of the institution. I have a right to do whatsoever I see fit within its hallowed walls.” The satisfaction of his smile increased. Mrs. Hutton, a shade grayer, calmer and handsomer, at first had looked chiefly astonished. Now she intervened. “Best give it back, Vin. Being what you are--or rather, what you aren’t--you can have no interest in the affairs of this girl, unless that----” “Unless that I do feel so obligated by my debts and her I owe so much. But take your delicate little effusion. I couldn’t possibly forget a word of it.” Her letter in hand, Dolores turned and was about to undertake the stairs again, when he stopped her. “Just a moment, Miss Trent. How long will it take you to retreat yourself out of here?” “To retreat?” she asked. “But I thought the object of this house----”