“She’s worse, she’s a knave! And she hates little Austin, and she’d say anything, true or false, to harm the girl.” “But, Salt, she says she saw Miss Austin, all in her fur coat and cap going cross lots to the Waring house Sunday evening—late.” “Can she prove it?” “I don’t know about that. But she saw her.” “How does she know it was Miss Austin? It might have been somebody who looked like her.” “You know those footprints.” “The Jap’s?” “You can’t say they’re the Jap’s. Miss Bascom says they’re the Austin girl’s.” “Esther!” Old Saltonstall Adams rose in his wrath, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself to let that girl’s name get into the Waring matter at all. Even if she did go out Sunday night, if Miss Bascom did see her, you keep still about it. If that girl’s wrong, it’ll be discovered without our help. If she isn’t, we must not be the ones to bring her into notice.” “She couldn’t be—be implicated—could she, Salt?” “No!” he thundered. “Esther, you astound me. That Bascom woman has turned your brain. She’s a viper, that’s what _she_ is!” He stormed out of the room, and getting into his great coat, tramped down to the village. Gordon Lockwood was in his room. This was much to the annoyance of Callie, the impatient chambermaid, who wanted to get her work done. Lockwood was himself impatient to get over to the Waring house, for he had much to do with the mass of incoming mail and the necessary interviews with reporters and other callers. Yet he tarried, in his pleasant bedroom at Mrs. Adams’, his door securely locked, and his own attitude one of stupefaction. For the hundredth time he reread the crumpled paper that he had taken from the study waste-basket under the very nose of Detective Morton. Had that sleuth been a little more worthy of his profession he never would have allowed the bare-faced theft. And now that Lockwood had it he scarce knew what to do with it. And truly it was an astonishing missive. For it read thus: My darling Anita: At the first glance of your brown eyes this afternoon, love was born in my heart. Life is worth living—with you in the world! And yet— That was all. The unfinished letter had been crumpled into a ball and thrown in the basket. Had another been started—and completed? Had Anita Austin received it—and was that why she kept to her room for two days? Was she a—he hated the word! a vamp? Had she secretly become acquainted with John Waring during her presence in Corinth, and had so charmed him that he wrote to her thus? Or, had they known each other before? What a mystery! There was not the slightest doubt of the writing. Lockwood knew it as well as he knew his own. And on top of all the other scraps in the waste-basket it must have been the last missive the dead man wrote—or, rather the last he threw away.