"Perhaps I am," said Crabb, slowly, "but I'm in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don't ride to-morrow----" "And if I should refuse----" Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away. "It would be too bad," he said, "that's all." "But how can you do such a thing," she cried, "without a reason--without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for----" and then broke off in confusion. Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by. "Every reason that I wish--every excuse that I need. Isn't that enough?" "No, it isn't--I refuse to believe anything about him." Crabb looked at his wife sombrely. "Then we'd better say no more. Your attitude makes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night." He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion. The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail. "You'll write him, Patty, won't you?" he said, as he went out. "Yes--yes," she answered, quickly, "I will--I'll write him." Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see. Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can't ride to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three. Until then-- As ever, P. CHAPTER XVI Patricia awoke rudely and with an appalling sense that she had made a shocking fool of herself. Heywood Pennington suddenly vanished out of her life as completely as though Fifth Avenue had opened and swallowed him. Very suddenly he had left New York, they said. And upon her breakfast tray one morning Patricia found the following in a handwriting unfamiliar and evidently disguised: March 12, 19-- Mrs. Mortimer Crabb, Dear Madam: I have in my possession twenty-one letters and notes written by you to Mr. Heywood Pennington, formerly of Philadelphia. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this communication and bring to this office, in person, on Wednesday of next week, five thousand dollars in cash or the letters will be mailed to Mr. Crabb. (Signed) JOHN DOE, Care of Fairman and Brooke, No. ---- Liberty Street. There in her fingers it flaunted its brutality. What could it mean? Her letters? To Heywood Pennington? Why--they were only notes--harmless little records of their friendship. What had she said? How had this odious Doe----?