Then, suddenly, it burst upon me what a hideous thing it was that she had done by keeping silent. It was the letter, arriving at that last desperate moment, which had snatched Marcia Lawrence and Burr Curtiss from the horrible pit which yawned before them. The writing of that letter was not an act of enmity, but of mercy. Harriet Kingdon had stood by and uttered no word of warning--I shuddered at the utter fiendishness of it! But who had written the letter? Then, in a flash, I knew! "What is it, Lester?" demanded Mr. Royce, wheeling suddenly around. I suppose some exclamation must have burst from me, though I was not conscious of uttering any sound. "What is it? I can guess what you're thinking of--I can't think of anything else." "I believe," I answered, "that I know who it was wrote that letter to Miss Lawrence." "You do!" he cried. "Who was it?" "Wait!" I said, and closed my eyes and pressed my hands tight against my temples in the effort at recollection. "It was Mrs. Lawrence's aunt--her father's sister. It was to her house she came when she ran away. It was there, no doubt, that the child was born." "And who is she?" asked our junior. "Where does she live?" I made another desperate effort of memory. At last I had it. "Her name is Heminway," I said. "I don't know her address, except that it's somewhere in New York. She was married to a banker." "Oh, I knew him--Martin Heminway," and Mr. Royce jerked down a directory and ran feverishly through its pages. "Here it is--East Fifty-fourth Street." He closed the book with a bang and took down his hat. "Where are you going?" I asked. "I'm going to see her," he said. "You're coming, too. We'll get to the bottom of this, for Curtiss's sake. Either we'll prove it a mistake, or we'll prove beyond doubt that it's true." Neither of us spoke during that long drive uptown. We were too depressed, too anxious. Nor did we speak as we mounted the steps of the old-fashioned brownstone and rang the bell. We were admitted. We were shown into a room on the second floor, after some delay, where, in a great padded chair, an old, old woman sat, thin and wrinkled, but with eyes preternaturally bright. "Mrs. Heminway," Mr. Royce began directly, "we're representing Mr. Burr Curtiss. We feel that some explanation is due him of the sudden flight, three days ago, of Marcia Lawrence, whom he was to marry; and we believe that you're the one best fitted to tell us the whole story." She did not answer for a moment, but sat peering up at us, plucking at the arms of her chair with nervous, skinny hands. "Of course he has a right to know!" she cried, in a high, thin voice, like the note of a flute. "I thought the girl would tell him." "But since she hasn't," said our junior, "I hope you will. I know it won't be a pleasant task----" She stopped him with a quick, claw-like gesture. "I have never shrunk from any duty," she said, "however unpleasant. Sit down, gentlemen. I will tell you the story."