gainst it. I switched it on.

Instantly the cabin was flooded with light. In the dining-room I could
see the remains of our supper lying untidily. That was not like her. She
had a horror of dirty dishes. I passed into the bedroom--Ah! the bed had
never been slept on.

What a fool I was! It flashed on me she had gone over to Mrs. Brooks' to
sleep. She was afraid of being alone. Poor little girl! How surprised
she would be to see me in the morning!

Well, I would go to bed. As I was pulling off my coat, I found the note
that had been given to me. Blaming myself for my carelessness, I pulled
it out of my pocket and opened it. As I unfolded the sheet, I noticed
it was written in what looked like a disguised hand. Strange! I thought.
The writing was small and faint. I rubbed my eyes and held it up to the
light.

Merciful God! What was this? Oh no, it could not be! My eyes were
deceiving me. It was some illusion. Feverishly I read again. Yes, they
were the same words. What could they mean? Surely, surely--Oh, horror on
horrors! They could not mean THAT. Again I read them. Yes, there they
were:

"If you are fool enough to believe that Berna is faithful to you
visit your brother's room to-night.

"A wellwisher."

Berna! Garry!--the two I loved. Oh, it could not be! It was monstrous!
It was too horrible! I would not believe it; I would not. Curse the vile
wretch that wrote such words! I would kill him. Berna! my Berna! she was
as good as gold, as true as steel. Garry! I would lay my life on his
honour. Oh, vile calumny! what devil had put so foul a thing in words?
God! it hurt me so, it hurt me so!

Dazedly I sat down. A sudden rush of heat was followed by a sweat that
pricked out of me and left me cold. I trembled. I saw a ghastly vision
of myself in a mirror. I felt sick, sick. Going to the decanter on the
bureau, I poured myself a stiff jolt of whisky.

Again I sat down. The paper lay on the hearthrug, and I stared at it
hatefully. It was unspeakably loathsome, yet I was fascinated by it. I
longed to take it up, to read it again. Somehow I did not dare. I was
becoming a coward.

Well, it was a lie, a black devil's lie. She was with one of the
neighbours. I trusted her. I would trust her with my life. I would go to
bed. In the morning she would return, and then I would unearth the
wretch who had dared to write such things. I began to undress.

Slow