The Door by Mary Roberts Rinehart

Martin and very little that was natural, save the color of her hair.
    “Her mind’s always on herself,” Judy had complained once. “She poses her very fingers, if you know what I mean. She’s self-conscious every minute.”
    And if there is one crime in the bright lexicon of modern youth it is to be self-conscious.
    Katherine, upset and nervous, was gnawing on her grievance like a dog on a bone.
    “But you thought Howard was foolish to remember her in his will, Jim.”
    “Nonsense, Katherine. Howard’s money is his, to leave where he likes. Anyhow, let’s hope he doesn’t leave it at all for a good many years.”
    That silenced her. She sat very still, with her eyes slightly dilated, facing the issue she had herself brought up; Howard gone and herself alone. The years going on and she alone. And into that silence Mary Martin’s voice broke, quiet but very clear.
    “I have always meant to ask you, Mr. Blake. Did you receive the letter Miss Gittings wrote you on Sunday, the day before the—the thing happened?”
    “A letter?” said Jim. “She wrote me a letter?”
    But he was shocked. A child could have seen it. His teacup shook in his hand, and he was obliged to rest it on his knee. I saw Judy’s eyes narrow.
    “She did indeed. I went in while she was writing it.”
    “A letter?” Katherine asked. “Did you get it, Jim?”
    “I received no letter.” He had recovered somewhat, however, and now he turned on Mary sharply. “How did you know it was to me? Did she say so?”
    “No. She was addressing the envelope, and she put her arm over it so I could not see. That is how I know.”
    “Do speak up,” Judy said irritably. “What’s the sense in being mysterious? God knows we’ve got enough of that.”
    “Her uniform is still hanging in the closet, and Mr. Blake’s name is quite clear on the sleeve. Of course you have to take a mirror to read it.”
    I do not think any one of us doubted that she had told the truth, unless it was Katherine. And Mary sat there, pleased at being the center of attention, the picture however of demureness, her eyes on her well-manicured hands, which were as Judy had said, carelessly but beautifully posed in her lap.
    “I don’t believe it,” Katherine said suddenly. “Please bring it down, Miss Martin.”
    I saw the girl stiffen and glance at me. She was taking no orders, said her attitude, except from me.
    “Will you, Mary? Please.”
    She went out then, leaving the four of us in a rather strained silence. Jim was staring into his teacup. Judy was watching Jim, and Katherine had put her head back and closed her eyes.
    “I don’t like that girl,” she said. “She is malicious.”
    “There’s nothing malicious in her giving us a clue if she’s got one,” said Judy with determined firmness. “We don’t know that she sent the letter, but if she wrote one—”
    “Well?”
    “It looks as if she had had something to say to Uncle Jim which she didn’t care to telephone, doesn’t it?”
    Mary came back then, and I daresay all of us felt rather sick when we saw Sarah’s white uniform once more. There is something about the clothing of those who have died which is terribly pathetic; the familiarity, the small wrinkles left by a once warm body. And in Sarah’s case the uniform spelled to most of us long years of loyal service. Katherine I know was silently crying.
    Judy was the first to take the garment and examine it. I noticed that Jim did not touch it. Mary had brought a mirror, and I saw that Joseph—who was gathering the teacups—was politely dissembling an interest as keen as ours. Judy however did not help him any. She looked at the ink marks on the cuff which Mary had indicated, and then silently passed both mirror and garment to me.
    There was no question of what was there. Somewhat smeared but still readable was the word “Blake,” and while the house number was illegible, the street, Pine Street, was quite distinct.
    No one spoke until Joseph went