it quickly over in his fingers, then bent hurriedly with it to the
light.

Strange things were happening that night! For the first time, the letter
was not even SEALED! That was not like her, either! What did it mean?
Quick, alert now, anxious even, he pulled the double, folded sheets
from the envelope, glanced rapidly through them--and, after a moment, a
smile, whimsical, came slowly to his lips.

It was quite plain now--all of it. The glove, the ring, and the unsealed
letter--and the postscript held the secret; or, rather, what had been
intended for a postscript did, for it comprised only a few words, ending
abruptly, unfinished: "Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room. The
man with the red wig is--" That was all, and the words, written in ink,
were badly blurred, as though the paper had been hastily folded before
the ink was dry.

It was quite plain; and, in view of the real explanation of it all,
eminently characteristic of her. With the letter already written, she
had come there, meaning to place it on the seat and cover it with the
rug, as, indeed, she had done; then, deciding to add the postscript, and
because she would attract less attention that way than in any other, she
had climbed into the car as though it belonged to her, and had seated
herself there to write it. She would have been hurried in her movements,
of course, and in pulling off her glove to use the fountain pen the ring
had come with it. The rest was obvious. She had but just begun to write
when he had appeared on the steps. She had slipped instantly down to
the floor of the car, probably dropping the glove from her lap, hastily
inclosed the letter in the envelope which she had no time to seal,
thrust the envelope under the rug, and, forgetting her glove and fearful
of risking his attention by attempting to close the door firmly,
had stolen along the body of the car, only to be noticed by him too
late--when she was well down the street!

And at that latter thought, once more chagrin seized Jimmie Dale--then
he turned impulsively to the letter. All this was extraneous, apart--for
another time, when every moment was not a priceless asset as it very
probably was now.

"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--it always began that way, never any other
way. He read on more and more intently, crouched there close to the
light on the floor of his car, lips thinning as he proceeded--read it to
the end, absorbing, memorising it--and then the abortive postscr