A knock at the door interrupted me. Mrs. Lawrence, who was sitting nearest it, rose quickly and opened it. I caught a glimpse, in the semi-darkness of the hall, of a woman in a maid's cap and apron. She gave her mistress a letter, whispering, as she did so, a swift sentence in her ear. I heard Mrs. Lawrence's low exclamation of surprise, as she held the letter up to the light and read the superscription. Then she turned swiftly toward us, her face pale with emotion. "It's a note!" she cried. "A note from Marcia! It will explain!" and she handed the envelope to Curtiss. "A note?" he stammered. "Addressed to me?" "In Marcia's writing. Read it. It will explain," she repeated. He took it with trembling hand, went to the window, and tore it open. I saw his lips quivering as he read it; I saw the white intensity with which Mrs. Lawrence watched his face; I was conscious, too, of another presence in the room, and I glanced around to see that the maid stood leaning forward in the open doorway, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, her mouth working, her hands clasping and unclasping convulsively. There was something sinister in her dark, expressive face, in her attitude--something almost of exulting, of triumph---- Curtiss crushed the letter in his hand with a quick movement of despair, and turned to us distraught, flushed, astounded. "It tells nothing," he faltered; "nothing. It--it--I can't believe it! Read it, Mr. Lester," and he held the sheet of paper toward me. There were only a few lines upon it:-- "Dearest: I cannot be your wife--how shall I tell you? It is quite, quite impossible. Oh, believe me, sweetheart, nothing but the certainty of that could keep me from you. I am fleeing; I cannot see you, cannot speak to you; there can be no explanation; only I shall love you always! Is it wrong to write that now, I wonder? Please do not attempt to follow me, to seek me out; that will only mean sorrow for us both--sorrow and shame. Perhaps some day, when the wound heals--will it ever heal?--I can tell you, can bear to see you. But oh, not now! "MARCIA LAWRENCE." CHAPTER V Deeper in the Maze I sat for a moment half-dazed, with this astonishing note in my fingers. Then I read it through again--there could be no doubting the sincerity of the writer, her passionate earnestness. "I cannot be your wife ... it is quite, quite impossible." But why was it impossible? Clearly not from any lack of affection. If the note proved anything, it proved that Marcia Lawrence loved Burr Curtiss far beyond the usual application of the word.