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. t…