McQuade knew something, the wretch! but what? This letter
had never been written by him. A man would have used a pronoun, third
person, masculine; he would have shown some venom back of the
duplicity that affirmed an interest in her welfare.
The tears dried quickly; the heat of her renewed rage burned them up.
She set about to do something she had not thought of doing
before--investigating. She held the note-paper to the sun. The
water-mark of a fashionable paper manufacturer was easily observable.
Men did not write on that brand. So much gained. Then she recalled a
French play in which a perfume had convicted a person of theft. She
held the envelope to her nose; nothing, not even tobacco. She tried
the letter itself. Ah, here was something tangible: heliotrope, vague,
but perceptible. Who among her friends used heliotrope on her
kerchief? She could not remember; in fact, any or all of them might
have worn it, so far as she could recall. She would go over her
invitations and visitors' cards; she would play detective; she would
ferret out as a spy who took this amiable interest in her future.
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