"I've known for some time Chrystie was troubled and not herself, and this afternoon when I saw her go I _knew_ something was wrong. She looked ill; she could hardly speak to me. And then _that_ came, and I telephoned to the Barlows'--the place she was going. She wasn't there, they'd never asked her, never expected her. She's gone somewhere--disappeared." She raised her voice, hard, threatening, her face angrily accusing, "Where is she, Mr. Mayer? Where is she?" He knew it all now, and his knowledge made him master. "Miss Alston, I'm very sorry about this--" "Oh. don't talk that way!" she cried, pointing at the letter. "What does _that_ mean?" "I think I can explain. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessary trouble and taken this thing," he scornfully dropped the letter on the table, "altogether too seriously. Sit down and let me straighten it out." He pointed to the rocker, but she did not move, keeping her eyes with their fierce steadiness on his face. "How _could_ I take it too seriously?" she said. "Why"--he smiled in good-natured derision--"what is it? An anonymous letter, evidently by the wording and the writing the work of an uneducated person. It's perfectly true that I've seen your sister several times on the streets, and once I _did_ happen upon her when she was taking a walk in the plaza by the Greek Church. But there's nothing unusual about that--I've met and talked with many other ladies in the same way. The writer of that rubbish evidently saw us in the plaza and decided--to use his own language--that he'd have some fun with us, or rather with me. The whole thing--the expression, the tone--indicates a vulgar, malicious mind. Don't give it another thought, it's unworthy of your consideration." He saw he had made an impression. Her eyes left him and she stood gazing fixedly into space, evidently pondering his explanation. In a pleasantly persuasive tone he added: "You know that I've not been a constant visitor at your house. You've seen my attitude to your sister." She made no reply to that, muttering low as if to herself: "Why should anyone write such a letter without a reason?" "Ah, my dear lady, why are there mischief makers in the world? I'm awfully sorry; I feel responsible, for the person who'd do such a thing is more likely to be known by me than by you. It's probably some servant I've forgotten to tip or by accident given a plugged quarter." There was a pause, then she turned to him and said: "But where's Chrystie?" He came closer, comforting, very friendly: "Since you ask me I'd set this down as a prank. She's full of high spirits--only a child yet. She's gone somewhere, to some friend's house, is playing a joke on you. Isn't that possible?" "Yes, possible." She had already found this straw herself, but grasped it anew, pushed forward by him. He went on, his words sounding the note of masculine reason and reassurance.