"Dear, dear friend:
"I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have, to-day, instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent of any one else has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am lost if you refuse. Do then what I ask, and save
"One who loves you."
It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date, only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary Leavenworth’s.
"A damning letter!" came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think fit to adopt on this occasion. "And a damning bit of evidence against the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!"
"A terrible piece of evidence, indeed," said I, "if I did not happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of something radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to some papers in Mrs. Belden’s charge; nothing else."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent your telegram, and went for the coroner."
"Very well, sir." And with this we parted; he to perform his rôle and I mine.
I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors would say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara, whoever that was, would do, and how she wished she had died before ever she had meddled with the affair.
Succeeding in calming her after a while, I induced her to sit down and listen to what I had to say. "You will only injure yourself by this display of feeling," I
