Whose writing could that be? She certainly
knew it; it was a singular hand, stiff, awkward, untrained. Why, it
was the writing of Emma's sister, Kate, Mrs. Clay. Not a doubt of
it. Alice had received a note from Mrs. Clay at the time of Jane
Vine's death, and remembered comparing the hand with her own and
blessing herself that at all events she wrote with an elegant slope,
and not in that hideous upright scrawl. The post-mark? Yes, it was
London, E.C. But if Kate addressed a letter to Mrs. Mutimer it must
be with sinister design, a design not at all difficult to imagine.
Alice had a temptation. To take this letter and either open it
herself or give it secretly to her brother? But the servant might
somehow make it known that such a letter had arrived.
'Anything for me, Alice?'
It was Adela's voice. She had approached unheard; Alice was so
intent upon her thoughts.
'Yes, one letter.'
There was no help for it. Alice glanced at her sister-in-law, and
strolled away again into the garden.
Adela examined the envelope. She could not conjecture from whom the
letter came; certainly from some illiterate person. Was it for her
husband? Was not the 'Mrs.' a mistake for 'Mr.' or perhaps mere
ill-writing that deceived the eye? No, the prefix was so very
distinct. She opened the envelope where she stood.
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