"Come in," I called. 

 The door opened slowly, and there, standing on the threshold, was—  Had I gone quite mad? I rose from my chair and stared unbelievingly—at Blakely's mother. 

 "May I come in?" she asked in her even, well-bred voice. 

 "Why—yes," I faltered. 

 Closing the door behind her, she walked over to the fireplace. 

 "Won't you sit down?" I asked. "No, I thank you. This is not an afternoon call, Miss Middleton, it is—But of course you understand." 

 I didn't understand at all, and her manner of saying I did made me furious. 

 "Perhaps I am very stupid," I said, "but I cannot imagine why you are here." 

 "Do you know where my son is?" 

 "I do not." 

 "You have no idea?" 

 "I have no idea where your son is, nor why you are here." 

 She eyed me intently. How cold and determined she looked and how handsome she was. 

 "If I thought you were telling the truth—" 

 "Mrs. Porter!" 

 She handed me a letter. "Please read that," she said. 

 "I will not read it," I replied. "I must beg that you leave me." 

 "There, there, child, I did not mean to be rude." 

 "You are more than rude, you are insolent." 

 "I am distracted, child. Please read the letter." 

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