would be such a lying coward! Her helplessness made her rage. Oh, to be
able to confront this traducer, this libeler. To see him punished, to
tell him to his face what she thought of him I Somewhere he was in the
world, laughing to himself in the safety of his namelessness--knowing
her futile anger and indignation--satisfied to have shamed and insulted
her--and her mother--her great, resourceful, splendid mother, away and
ill when this dastardly attack was made. Impulsively she turned to run
to her aunt, and lay the matter before her, but paused and sat down on
the little chair before her writing desk. Covering her eyes with her
clenched hands she tried to think. Tante Lydia was worse than useless,
scatterbrained, self-centered, incapable. What would she do? Lament and
call all her friends in conclave; send in the police; acknowledge her
fright, and give this nameless writer the satisfaction of knowing that
his shaft had found its mark?

Teddy! Teddy would come to her at once. But what could he do? Sympathy
was not what she wanted; it was support and guidance. With a trembling
hand she smoothed the paper before her and, controlling herself, reread
every word with minutest care. But this third perusal left her more at
sea than before. What did this enmity mean? What could have incited it?
Why did this wretch give her such minute instructions? She knew of no
safe in the library--could it be just possible that such a thing _did_
exist? Could it be possible that this liar had obtained knowledge of her
mother's private affairs to such an extent that he knew of facts that
had remained unknown even to her?--the daughter! A new cause for fear
loomed before her. Had this venomous enemy access to the house? Was he
able to come and go at will, ferreting out its secrets?

Dorothy turned about quickly, almost expecting to see some sinister
shadow leering at her from the doorway, or disappearing into the