Miriam looked across the room at Guy Trenholm. He was still talking at the telephone with his back turned to her. She was oblivious of the fact that she was distinctly visible to him in the mirror hanging just before him on the wall. Miriam studied the handwriting on the topmost envelope--it bore Paul Abbott's name and address. Swiftly she examined the address on each envelope--it was the same--then counted them--eleven in all. Miriam's thoughts reverted to the black crest on her torn envelope. She turned over the eleven envelopes--the flap on each was missing. "Miss Ward." Betty Carter's voice just over her shoulder made her start violently. "Will you go to my aunt at once; she needs you." "Certainly." Miriam was conscious of Betty's cold regard; but there was no hurry discernible in her movements as she replaced the rubber band around the envelopes and laid them back on the top of the open bag, which, she noticed for the first time, bore, stamped upon it, Guy Trenholm's initials. CHAPTER VIII BLACKMAIL BETTY CARTER watched Miriam disappear up the staircase before she moved. Crossing the living room she stopped in front of the fire and warmed her hands, then sitting down she toyed idly with a string of pearls about her neck. "Still conscious of your pearls?" asked Guy Trenholm. He had followed her across the room and paused in front of her. Betty crimsoned from neck to brow and her eyes flamed with wrath. "If you can't refrain from insults, don't address me," she said. It was Trenholm's turn to color. "You misunderstood me," he exclaimed. "Seeing you playing with your pearls reminded me of your inordinate fondness for jewelry when in Paris." "Inordinate fondness," echoed Betty, and her delicately arched eyebrows rose in displeasure. "Your explanation is in as questionable taste as your first remark." Trenholm shrugged his shoulders. "If you take offense so easily, we'll change the subject," he said. "Where were you off to so early this morning?" She looked at him without speaking and Trenholm occupied the time in lighting a cigarette, after first asking her permission, which was given with a nod of her head. When she finally spoke it was to ask a question and not to answer his. "I cannot understand," she began, "why a man of your capabilities accepted the office of sheriff. Have you no ambition to make good in the future?" "The future?" his smile was bitter. "The future can take care of itself. What concerns me is the present. Where did Pierre take you in your aunt's car before breakfast this morning?" Her lips curled in a disdainful smile. "If you wish to know, why not question Pierre?" "Because I prefer to come to you rather than ask a servant," he stated quietly. "Take your time, I'll wait for an answer," and he dropped into a chair by the side of the big sofa on which she was sitting. "I see, patience is a virtue with you," she remarked. "Is it, by chance, your only virtue?"