water heater in
the basement and, opening the valve, steamed the envelope open. He
took the contents to the little room off the library to read. This is
what met his eyes:

"Madagascar Hotel
August--

"Mrs. George Deaves:

Dear Madam:

I am exceedingly sorry to be obliged to inform you that my customary
fortnightly contribution to your charity must be omitted on this
occasion, the reason being that the activity of a certain agitator has
resulted in shutting off the income from my business, and I am without
funds. I am sure you will agree with me that these agitators ought to
be discouraged in every possible way. Let us make a stand against
them. You can reach me at this hotel at any time.

Yours faithfully,
RODERICK FRELINGHUYSEN.

This had an innocent sound, and for a moment Evan supposed he had made
a mistake in opening it. But he read it again, and began to grin as
the various implications of the note became clear to him. "Damn
clever!" he thought. "If this was found lying about no one could
suspect anything from it. Not even George Deaves. Why, it almost took
me in and I was forewarned!"

Evan thoughtfully considered all that the letter meant. "First of all
it shows that Maud is not a regular member of the gang, but that they
have been whacking up with her just to gain her good will. That's why
she supplies the pressure from this end. It all fits in! Of course I
am the agitator that he refers to, and he's suggesting to her that she
get me fired. But why does he give her an address so that she can
write to him? By George! I have it! He's giving her a chance to send
him a story that can be used against the old man!"

He took a copy of the letter, sealed it up again and slipped it back
among the rest of the mail matter in the hall.

During the morning he was obliged to accompany Simeon Deaves on one of
his peregrinations. When they returned for lunch Evan sought out
Josefa, the lady's-maid.

"What's your mistress been doing all morning?" he asked.

"Oh, Maud's got a new bug!" was the scornful answer. "Been practising
on the typewriter for hours."

Evan pricked up his ears. "The typewriter?"

"She went out right after breakfast and brought home a second-hand
machine. Been beating the Dickens out of it ever since."

"What is she writing?"

"Search me. Won't let me come near her. Looks like a story or
something."

"Get a glimpse of it if you can."

"No chance. She'