of fact, solved the puzzle of who the strange man was who called in such a mysterious manner and asked if a "Mrs. Nan Britton Neilsen worked there," and then disclaimed a desire to see her. The telephone operator's description fitted Mr. Votaw, or perhaps George Christian.
The possibility that I might be "shadowed" simply because I possessed a secret which many people would be interested in protecting from public dissemination, filled me with a new fear—a fear hitherto unfelt: that of possible desire to destroy me and thus destroy my secret. I was the only living person who knew the intimate details of our love-story, Warren Harding's and mine. And if such a thing should happen to me, my baby girl would lose her birthright, except as she would be told of it by my sister, who really knew pitifully little of the details. The mere thought of such a happening struck terror to my heart amounting to partial dementia at times when fatigue and despondency clutched at me, and I was becoming weaker and weaker physically as a result of my nightmarish thoughts. I must be strong. I must fight for Elizabeth Ann's sake! I must shake off this state of weakness which was dragging me down and down, and down.
Perhaps it was this crazed state of mentality which led me to construe Mr. Votaw's letter, with its heavy underscoring, as a direct contumelious insinuation toward Elizabeth Ann and my claims for her, and perhaps it was what I thought might be my last desperate effort in her behalf which led me to write with the spirit which dominates the following letter:
