that, and I agree to beleive what you say about the wrong apartment,
Even then it's rather unusual. I find a pale and determined looking
young lady going through my desk in a business-like manner. She says she
has come for a Letter. Now the question is, is there a Letter? If so,
what Letter?"

"It is a love letter," I said.

"Don't blush over such a confession," he said. "If it is true, be proud
of it. Love is a wonderful thing. Never be ashamed of being in love, my
child."

"I am not in love," I cried with bitter furey.

"Ah! Then it is not YOUR letter!"

"I wrote it."

"But to simulate a passion that does not exist--that is sackrilege. It
is----"

"Oh, stop talking," I cried, in a hunted tone. "I can't bear it. If you
are going to arrest me, get it over."

"I'd rather NOT arrest you, if we can find a way out. You look so young,
so new to Crime! Even your excuse for being here is so naive, that
I--won't you tell me why you wrote a love letter, if you are not in
love? And whom you sent it to? That's important, you see, as it bears
on the case. I intend," he said, "to be judgdicial, unimpassioned, and
quite fair."