She had had it from the start, off and on, coming at her in rushes of disintegrating doubt. She had said nothing about it, had tried to force it down, and, talking to them, had been reassured by their unquestioning certainty. Now the scene in the office had strengthened it—something about Esther Maitland, she didn’t know what. She had assured herself then—she tried to do it now—that there could be no mistake, they had proofs, the girl hadn’t been able to explain anything. But she could not argue it away; it persisted, stronger than thought, power or will, unescapable like the horror of a dream. It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep down in the recesses of her being, "Chapman couldn’t have done it." She knew him better than the others did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines his weaknesses ran upon. She knew him through and through, to what lengths anger might urge him, what he could do when aroused and what he never could do. And trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling the facts against him, going over them point by point, she couldn’t make herself believe that he had stolen Bébita. And if he hadn’t, then where was she? This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her recognition, intrusive as Banquo’s ghost and as terrible. She writhed under its torment, twisting and turning until her clothes were wound about her in a tangled coil, moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled from grisly possibilities. She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad of any interruption she sat up, and, swinging her feet to the floor, called out a sharp "Come in." A bell-boy entered with a letter which he presented with the information that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be brought immediately to the rooms. The letter was for her, addressed in typewriting, and as the boy withdrew she rose, heavy-eyed and heavy-headed, and tore open the envelope. The first line brought a thin, choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless, her glance devouring the words. Dated the day before, typewritten on a single sheet of commercial paper, it ran as follows: "Mrs. Suzanne Price, "_Dear Madam:_