riously when I was abroad. Only yesterday it was returned to me by mail, addressed to me at my house in Yonkers, in a handwriting that I can't recognize."
"Well, I don't see what you are troubled about, then, if you have got it back."
Miss Dalrymple looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, her cheek resting on her white-gloved hand, as if not quite sure how to express what she meant. Finally she said impulsively, "Well, it's something so vague and silly it seems absurd to speak to you about it. But Fanny and I have been talking it over and wondering where it came from, and everything, and we both have a sort of queer feeling that it has something to do, perhaps, with a certain letter my mother once had."
"Wait a moment. Who is Fanny?"
"Oh, she's my maid—and she's a treasure. Indeed, she is more like a friend to me than a maid."
"How long have you had her?"
"Oh, ever since mother died."
The Seer frowned slightly. "Go on,—about the letter."
"You've heard about my father's will, and the lawsuit, haven't you? The papers have had a lot about it."
"Oh, yes, the Dalrymple will case. Let's see—your father was divorced from your mother, wasn't he?"
"Yes; but he wasn't at all happy with the woman he married afterward—she's a vixen—and he always regretted that he had left my mother. This Mrs. Dalrymple is contesting the will that father made in favor of my mother. She isn't satisfied with her widow's third."
