One night, as Helen was chatting of a young an from Boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him "Helen's little lamb," Mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room.
"Cigarettes," she thought, "and--and raspberry jam--!" She waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, "Did Burdon Woodward ride home with you tonight ?" she asked.
"With Doris and me," nodded Helen, smiling at herself in the mirror.

"He told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized." Nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as Helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, Mary was sure she recognized Burdon's dashing handwriting.

A vague sense of uneasiness passed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail.
On the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father.
"Rio de Janeiro," breathed Mary, reading the post-mark.

"Why, that's where the cable came from!" She opened the letter....

It was signed "Paul." "Dear Sir (it began) "This isn't begging.