As Harcourt, however, extended his hand for the
manuscript Fletcher interfered.
"You forget that you gave it to her, and she has sent it to me. If I
don't keep it, it can be returned to her only. Now may I ask who is this
lady who takes such an interest in your literary career? Have you known
her long? Is she a friend of your family?"
The slight sneer that accompanied his question restored the natural
color to the young man's face, but kindled his eye ominously.
"No," he said briefly. "I met her accidentally about two months ago and
as accidentally found out that she had taken an interest in one of the
first things I ever wrote for your paper. She neither knew you nor me.
It was then that she told me this story; she did not even then know who
I was, though she had met some of my family. She was very good and has
generously tried to help me."
Fletcher's eyes remained fixed upon him.
"But this tells me only WHAT she is, not WHO she is."
"I am afraid you must inquire of her brother, Mr. Shipley," said
Harcourt curtly.
"Shipley?"
"Yes; he is traveling with her for his health, and they are going
south when the rains come. They are wealthy Philadelphians, I believe,
and--and she is a widow."
Fletcher picked up her note and glanced again at the signature,
"Constance Ashwood." There was a moment of silence, when he resumed in
quite a different voice: "It's odd I never met them nor they me.
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