Heasant that enlightenment which had already
dawned on her son.
"Dear Bertie," it ran; "I hope I haven't distracted your brain with
the spoof letters I've been sending in the name of a fictitious
Clotilde. You told me the other day that the servants, or somebody at
your home, tampered with your letters, so I thought I would give any
one that opened them something exciting to read. The shock might do
them good.
"Yours,
"Clovis Sangrail."
Mrs. Heasant knew Clovis slightly, and was rather afraid of him. It was
not difficult to read between the lines of his successful hoax. In a
chastened mood she rapped once more at Bertie's door.
"A letter from Mr. Sangrail. It's all been a stupid hoax. He wrote
those other letters. Why, where are you going?"
Bertie had opened the door; he had on his hat and overcoat.
"I'm going for a doctor to come and see if anything's the matter with
you. Of course it was all a hoax, but no person in his right mind could
have believed all that rubbish about murder and suicide and jewels.
You've been making enough noise to bring the house down for the last hour
or two."
"But what was I to think of those letters?" whimpered Mrs.
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