It was early in the evening when she reached Nairn's house, which she had thought it better to arrive at a little before he came home, and was told that Mrs. Nairn and Miss Chisholm were out but were expected back shortly. Evelyn had been by no means cordial to her since their last interview, and Mrs. Nairn's manner had been colder; but Jessie decided to wait, and for the second time that day fortune seemed to play into her hands. It was dark outside, but the entrance hall was brightly lighted, and she could see into it from where she sat. Highly-trained domestics are generally scarce in the West, and the maid had left the door of the room open. By and by there was a knock at the outer door and a young lad came in with some letters in his hand. He explained to the maid that he had been to the post office and had brought his employer's private mail. Then he withdrew, and the maid, who first laid the letters carelessly on a little table, also retired, banging a door behind her. The concussion shook down the letters, and several, fluttering forward with the sudden draught, fell near the threshold of the room. Jessie rose to replace them. When she reached the door, she stopped abruptly, for she recognised the writing on one envelope. There was no doubt it was from Vane, and she noticed that it was addressed to Miss Chisholm. Jessie picked it up, and when she had laid the others upon the table stood with it in her hand. "Has the man no pride?" she said, half aloud. Then she looked about her, listening, greatly tempted, and considering. There was no sound in the house; Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn were out, and she was cut off from its other occupants by a closed door. Nobody would know that she had entered the hall, and if the letter were subsequently missed it would be unlikely that any question regarding its disappearance would ever be asked. If there was no response from Evelyn, Vane, she thought, would not renew his appeal. Jessie had no doubt that the letter contained an appeal of some kind, which might lead to a reconciliation, and she knew that silence is often more potent than an outbreak of anger. She had only to destroy the letter, and the breach between the two people whom she desired to separate would widen automatically. There was little risk of detection, but standing tensely still, with set lips and her heart beating faster than usual, she shrank from the decisive action. She could still replace the letter, and look for other means of bringing about what she wished. She was self-willed, and endowed with few troublesome principles, but until she had poisoned Evelyn's mind against Vane she had never done anything flagrantly dishonourable. Then, while she waited, irresolute, a fresh temptation seized her in the shape of a burning desire to learn what the man had to say. He would reveal his feelings in the message, and she could judge the strength of her rival's influence over him.