She did not want to appear as a complaining witness, but her righteous indignation carried her to a large hotel in whose writing room she found pen, ink, paper, envelopes, and secrecy. She dashed off a little note to David advising him that his wife was showing more interest than he might approve in a certain heart-breaker. Mrs. Coleridge neglected to sign her name. In fact, she rather disguised her handwriting, though this made little difference, since David did not know it, anyway. She dropped the little letter into a mail-box with the innocent glee of an anarchist slipping a bomb with a time fuse under a millionaire's automobile. 