"Marta!" urged the Dead Man, almost incoherent in his wild haste. "See what you have there! Look down at that picture in your hand! Turn it over and _look_ at it! Look at the hand-writing on that torn letter! Look quickly! Then run with them to Miss Kathrien. Make her piece the letter together and read it! Quick! It's the only way she can learn the truth. Frederik will never tell her. Marta!--_Ah!_"
His wild plea broke off in a cry of chagrin. For Frederik, turning from the sideboard, had seen the old woman.
"Your coffee, Mynheer Frederik," said she, laying down the photograph and letter without a glance at them.
"Yes, yes. Of course," answered Frederik. "I forgot. Thanks."
She turned to leave the room. Frederik, coming over to the desk, caught sight of the torn blue envelope and the picture, where she had laid them.
Hurriedly covering them with his hand, he glanced at her in quick, terrified suspicion. But the face she turned to him as she hesitated for a moment at the kitchen door showed him at once that he was safe. Nevertheless, Marta lingered on the threshold.
"Well?" queried Frederik, seating himself beside the tray.
"Is there," she stammered, "is there no--no word--no letter----?"
"Word? Letter?" he echoed nervously. "What do you mean?"
"From----" began the old woman in timid hesitation, then in a rush of courage: "From my little girl. From Anne Marie."
"But--at a time like this--if she knows--oh, I felt it,--I hoped--that there would be _some_ message from her! Every day I have hoped----"
"No," he broke in. "Nothing's come. No letter. No word of any sort from her. I'd have let you know if there had. By the way, I have an appointment at the hotel in a few minutes. Tell Miss Kathrien, if she asks for me."
He busied himself with the tray. Marta looked at him a moment longer, held by some power that she could not explain. Then years of habit overcame impulse. She courtesied and withdrew to her kitchen.
As the door shut behind her, Frederik caught up the torn blue letter. Tossing it in a metal ash tray he struck a match. Peter Grimm, divining his intent, sprang forward with a wordless cry to stop him. The Dead Man's hands tore at the wrists of the Living; sought by main strength to snatch the paper out of his reach; with pitiful helplessness tried to thrust back the hand that held the lighted match.