While she was away, I tried to think. Of course the letter would prove to be a forgery. But, fortunately, there was a quick way of making assurance sure. The week after Grandmother died, Lord Ruddington, who had only just come of age, wrote his condolences to Alice from Oxford. He knew Grandmamma rather well as a boy, and he had met Alice once in town. I felt sure we had kept the letter. What I meant to do was, first, to make poor Susan look at the real Lord Ruddington’s handwriting with her own eyes; and, second, to tease or soothe her into a good humour till she could laugh at the practical joke. At the same time I made up my mind that if I could identify the joker, who was clearly a person of sufficient education to know better, he should smart for his insolence and cruelty. Susan came back hugging the great violet book. I opened it in my lap and turned the leaves, hating the practical joker more bitterly than ever for reviving these sad and sacred memories in a connection so contemptible. Susan watched me eagerly. She had divined that I was searching for something that bore upon her rosy hopes and ashen disappointment. At last I found it. There was the heading, "Christ Church." My heart almost stood still. The bold, stylish, interesting handwriting was unmistakable. The real Lord Ruddington and Susan’s were one and the same man. It was Susan who broke the silence. "Oh, Miss," she murmured in awestruck tones, "I believe it’s real after all!" "Yes, Susan," I answered slowly; "it is real. I’m sorry, truly sorry, that I hurt you by my doubts. But it is so very extraordinary. And it’s so very serious and important. Surely it was best to suspect it till we were certain." "Oh, yes, Miss," protested Susan gratefully. And when I did not speak, she glanced coyly towards a second loaded envelope which had been lying on the table beside Lord Ruddington’s. "What!" I said. "Surely there isn’t another letter, is there?" "No, Miss. It’s only mine--the letter I nearly posted in answer." "Show it to me--that is, of course, if you want me to see it." Susan pulled out a folded sheet, opened it, and laid it on my knee. The first thing about the document that struck me was the fact that it represented a prodigal consumption of ink. In the ordinary course, Susan doesn’t write very badly. But, in answering Lord Ruddington, she had formed the characters slowly and hugely and singly, as a child does at school. In two places it was evident that sandpaper or a penknife had removed blots. Altogether it was the sort of handwriting in which one might have expected the milkman to declare to the kitchen-maid, "The rose is red, the violet’s blue, Honey is sweet, and so are you." Susan’s answer ran:-- Care of the Honourable Miss Langley, THE GRANGE, TRAXELBY, September 6, 1906. SIR,--It was with the most various and lively emotions that I perused your Letter to which I am now endeavouring, though imperfectly, to reply.