“If you hadn't signed it--” she at last comforted her sister's indignant face that was reflected from the mirror, where she stood as she fastened the white stock at her throat and snapped the clasp of her belt. “Signed it!” She was almost in tears. “What difference will that make when I claim the letter? I _must_ find it! But of course some one who knows me will be sure to find it. And _that_ letter, of all letters!” “If I were you, Edith,” Rose advised, calmly, “I shouldn't--” “Well?”--with her hand on the door-knob. “--try to find it. It will be impossible to trace it to you, in that case.” “But _don't_ you see--” “Wait!” Rose caught and pulled her back. “How _could_ they know? You'll get in much deeper. What had you written?” “I said, 'Dear Christopher'--” Rose laughed. “I'm glad you didn't say 'Dear Mr. Brander.' In that case you'd have given _him_ away. But 'Christopher' is such an unusual name, they might--Sherlock Holmes could trace him by it alone.” “You _are_ a Job's comforter--a perfect Eliphaz the Temanite! Oh, oh!” Her soft crescendo was again tragic. “In effect you said: 'Dear Christopher, as you have so often entreated, I have at last decided to be thine. The tinkle of thy shekels, now that I am so nearly shekelless myself, has done its fatal worst. I am thine--'” “Oh, let me go!” Edith cried, in a fury close to tears. “You haven't any feeling. You are not going to sacrifice _your_self!” “To a good-looking young man who loves me exceedingly, and to something over a million? No, I am not!” Rose said, dryly. “Oh, it's dreadful! Perfectly!” Edith cried, and on her indecision Rose hung another bit of wisdom: “Why don't you go down in a leisurely way and investigate? You know the direction it blew away; follow it. If you meet any one, be admiring the scenery!” Again Edith's look deserved the foot-lights, but Rose shrugged her shoulders and withdrew her detaining hand. Edith caught up her parasol and ran down the stairs. The big hall was empty. From a room on the right came a click of billiard-balls. “Perhaps they are all in the house!” she thought, and drew a small breath of relief. On the door-step she paused, with her parasol open, and considered. The house faced the west; her room was to the south, and the letter had disappeared to the east. She chose her line of advance carefully careless. The lawn on the eastern side of the house sloped to an artificial pond, and near it a vine-covered summer-house made a dim retreat from the June sun. Look as she would, though, no faintest glimpse of white paper rewarded her gaze. She strolled on--daunted, but still persistent, with the wind blowing her hair out of order--to the door of the summer-house. Within it a young man was standing, reading her letter. He looked up and took off his hat hastily, crumpling the letter in his hand. She saw he was quite ugly, with determined-looking eyes, and the redemption of a pleasant mouth.