How could these letters have fallen into the hands of a stranger? The more she thought of it the more impenetrable became the mystery. How could this villainous Doe have guessed her identity? A few of these letters were signed merely "Patty," but most of them were not signed at all. It was dreadful to be insulted with no redress at any hand. Five thousand dollars! The very insignificance of the figures made her position worse. Was this the value of her reputation? Truly her fortunes had sunk to their lowest ebb. She tried to picture John Doe, a small ferret of a man with heavy eyes, red hair, and a rumpled shirt-front, sitting in a dingy office up three flights of stairs, fingering her little scented notes with his soiled fingers. Oh, it was horrible--horrible! Yet how could she escape? Would she not tarnish her soul still more by paying the wretched money--Mort's money--in forfeit of her disobedience to him? Every instinct revolted at the thought. Wouldn't it be better after all to throw herself upon Mort's mercy? She knew now how much bigger and better he was than anything else in the world. She loved him now. She knew it. There wouldn't ever be any more might-have-beens. She longed to feel his protecting arms about her and hear his quiet steady voice in her ears, even though it was to scold her for the mere child that she was. His arms seemed the greater sanctuary now--now that she was not sure that they ever could be opened to her. Still clasping the letter she buried her face in the pillows of her couch and wept. That night she sent down word that she had a headache, but a night's rest did wonders. A cheerful, smiling person descended on Crabb in the midst of his morning coffee. "What! Patty! At the breakfast table? Will the wonders never cease?" "I didn't come to breakfast, Mort. I wanted to see you before you went out." Crabb smiled over the top of his coffee cup. "What is it, Patty? A hat bill or an opera cloak? I'm prepared. Tell me the awful worst." "Don't, Mort--please. I can't bear you facetious. It's--er--about Madame Jacquard's bill and some others. They've gotten a little large and she--she wants me to help her out to-day--if I can--if you can--and I told her I would----" Crabb was wrapped in contemplation of his muffin. But he allowed his wife to struggle through to the end. Then he looked up a little seriously from under heavy brows. "Um--er--how much, Patty? A thousand? I think it can be managed----" "No, Mort," she interrupted, tremulously, "you see I have had to get so many things of late--we've been going out a great deal you know--a lot of other things you wouldn't understand." "Oh! Perhaps I might." "No--I--I'm afraid I've been rather extravagant this winter. I didn't tell you but I--I've used up my allowance long--ever so long ago." Mortimer Crabb's brows were now really menacing. "It seems to me----" he began. But she interrupted him at once.