Tears are very precious things, Linda. They ought to be the most
unusual things in life. Now tell me something. Were you coming
to me about that matter that worried you the other evening?"
Linda shook her head.
"No," she said, "I have turned that matter over where it belongs.
I have nothing further to do with it. I'll confess to you I took
a paper from among those that fell from Henry Anderson's pocket.
It was not his. He had no right to have it. He couldn't
possibly have come by it honorably or without knowing what it
was. I took the liberty to put it where it belongs, or at least
where it seemed to me that it belongs. That is all over."
"Then something else has happened?" asked Peter. "Something
connected with the package of letters in your lap?"
Linda nodded vigorously.
"Peter, I have done something perfectly awful," she confessed.
"I never in this world meant to do it. I wouldn't have done it
for anything. I have got myself into the dreadfullest mess, and
I don't know how to get out. When I couldn't stand it another
minute I started right to you, Peter, just like I'd have started
to my father if I'd had him to go to."
"I see," said Peter, deeply interested in the toe of his shoe.
"You depended on my age and worldly experience and my unconcealed
devotion to your interests, which is exactly what you should do,
my dear. Now tell me. Dry your eyes and tell me, and whatever
it is I'll fix it all right and happily for you.
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