Chapter XXVII‘Margaret, why do you look like that?’
‘There’s nothing in it—the envelope’s empty.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look for yourself.’
Greta held the envelope up to the light, turned it over, shook it. There was nothing inside.
‘What a funny thing! It is Papa’s writing, you know—and his initials, and—look here! Something’s been rubbed out! Look—under the E.S.! Can’t you see the paper’s all rubbed?’
She pressed against Margaret, pushing the envelope into her hand, pointing with a plump pink finger. Under the initials E. S. the paper was roughened as if it had been scraped—very, carefully and lightly scraped.
Margaret held it close under the light. Something had certainly been erased—initials? As she turned the paper, a faint marking just showed here and there. Two letters had been wr
