world
"that we do not dream of in our Philosophy." Was H. a real person, or
a creature of my disordered brain? In plain and simple language, COULD
THERE BE SUCH A PERSON?

I feared not.

And If there was no H, really, and I married him, where would I be?

There was a ball at the Club that night, and the Familey all went. No
one came to say good-night to me, and by half past ten I was alone with
my misery. I knew Carter Brooks would be at the ball, and H also, very
likely, dancing around as agreably as if he really existed, and I had
not made him up.

I got the book from Sis's room again, and re-read it. The woman in it
had been in great trouble, too, with her husband cleaning his revolver
and making his will. And at last she had gone to the apartments of the
man who had her letters, in a taxicab covered with a heavy veil, and had
got them back. He had shot himself when she returned--the husband--but
she burned the letters and then called a Doctor, and he was saved. Not
the doctor, of course. The husband.

The villain's only hold on her had been the letters, so he went to South
Africa and was gored by an elephant, thus passing out of her life.

Then and there I knew that I would have to get my letter back from H.
Without it he was powerless. The trouble was that I did not know where
he was staying. Even if he came out of a Cabinet, the Cabinet would have
to be somewhere, would it not?

I felt that I would have to meet gile with gile. And to steal one's own
letter is not really stealing. Of course if he was visiting any one and
pretending to be a real person, I had no chance in the world. But if he
was stopping at a hotel I thought I could manage. The man in the book
had had an apartment, with a Japanese servant, who went away and drew
plans of American Forts in the kitchen and left the woman alone with the
desk containing the Letter. But I daresay that was unusualy lucky and
not the sort of thing to look forward to.

With me, to think is to act. Hannah was out, it being Xmas and her
brother-in-law having a wake, being dead, so I was free to do anything I
wanted to.

First I called the Club and got Carter Brooks on the telephone.

"Carter," I said, "I--I am writing a letter. Where is--where does H.
stay?"

"Who?"

"H.--Mr. Grosvenor."

"Why, bless your ardent little Heart! Writing, are you? It's sublime,
Bab!"

"Where does he live?"

"And is it all alone you are, on Xmas Night!" he burbled. (This is a