The first letter from Decatur which Cynthia Gail now opened was from her mother--a sweet, concerned motherly letter of the sort which that girl, who had been Ruth Alden, well knew and which made her cry a little. It told absolutely nothing about anyone whom Cynthia might meet in Chicago except the one line, “I’m very glad that Mrs. Malcolm Corliss has telephoned to you.” The second letter from Decatur, written a day earlier than the other, was from her father; from this Cynthia gained chiefly the information--which the Germans had not supplied her--that her father had accompanied her to Chicago, established her at the hotel and then been called back home by business. He had been “sorry to leave her alone” but of course she was meeting small risks compared to those she was to run. The letter from Rockford, which had arrived only that morning, was from George--that meant George Byrne. She had been engaged to him, it appeared; but they had quarreled on Sunday; he felt wholly to blame for it now; he was very, very sorry; he loved her and could not give her up. Would she not write him, please, as soon as she could bring herself to? The letter was all about themselves--just of her and of him. No one else at all was mentioned. The letters in the drawer--eight in number--were all from him; they mentioned, incidentally, many people but all apparently of Decatur; there was no reference of any sort to anyone named Hubert or Lennon. She returned the letters to their place in the drawer and laid with them those newly received. The mail, if it gave her small help, at least had failed to present any immediately difficult problem of its own. There was apparently no anxiety at home about her; she safely could delay responding until later in the afternoon; but she could not much longer delay rejoining Hubert Lennon or sending him some excuse; and offering excuse, when knowing nothing about the engagement to which she was committed, was perhaps more dangerous than boldly appearing where she was expected. The Germans had told her that they believed she had no close friends in Chicago; and, so far as she had added to that original information, it seemed confirmed. The telephone bell rang and gave her a jump; it was not the suddenness of the sound, but the sign that even there when she was alone a call might make demand which she could not satisfy. She calmed herself with an effort before lifting the receiver and replying. “Cynthia?” a woman’s voice asked. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a large afternoon affair, dear,” the voice said easily. “But quite wartime. I’d wear the yellow dress.” “Thank you, I will,” Cynthia said, and the woman hung up.