but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the
address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.

It was addressed to "Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of
Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S." Surprise stayed his fingers,
and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened
themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers
there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant,
tantalizing mirth.

"My letter, please," he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why.
His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet
crossed her face.

"What a stupid I was to drop it," she cried, almost tearfully. Then
she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in
spite of consequences. "Isn't it too funny for anything?"

"I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my
letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the
officers of the law."

"You don't expect me to give it to you?" she cried, holding it
behind her.

"Most assuredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you
to do so," he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to
read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All
sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.