For as long as I might have counted "one, two," slowly, the paper looked black before my eyes, as if ink were spilt over it, blotting out the words: but the dark smudge cleared away, and showed me--nothing, except that, if Alexis Godensky held a trump card, I was not to have a sight of it until later, when he chose.
"MY DEAR MAXINE," [he began his letter, though he had never been given the right to call me Maxine, and never had dared so to call me before] "I must see you, and talk to you this evening, alone.

This for your own sake and that of another, even more than mine, though you know very well what it is to me to be with you.

Perhaps you may be able to guess that this is important.

I am so sure that you _will_ guess, and that you will not only be willing but anxious to see me to-night, if you never were before, that I shall venture to be waiting for you at the stage door when you come out.
"Yours, in whatever way you will, "ALEXIS." If anything could have given me pleasure at that moment, it would have been to tear the letter in little pieces, with the writer looking on.
Then to throw those pieces in his hateful face, and say, "That's your answer." But he was not looking on, and even if he had been I could not have done what I wished.

He knew that I would have to consent to see him, that he need have no fear I would profit by my knowledge of his intentions, to order him sent away from the stage door.