me thinking
the men hadn't met in Paris. Muller admitted going to a bank to get your
address. The people there didn't want to give it, but when he explained
that it was important, and mentioned where he was going, they saw that
he might have time to meet you at Amiens on his way home. So they told
him where you were. Now, there's no good your being cross with _me_.
What's done is done, and can't be undone. I acted for the best--_my_
best; and in my opinion for your best. Listen! Here's the message, word
for word. You'll see that a few hours' delay for me to think it over
could make no difference to any one concerned. Paul Herter, from
somewhere--but maybe not 'somewhere in France'--sends you a verbal
greeting, because it was more sure of reaching you--not coming to grief
_en route_. He reminds you that he asked for an address in case he had
something of interest to communicate. He hoped to find the grave of a
man you loved. Instead, he thinks he has found that there is no
grave--that the man is above ground and well. He isn't sure yet whether
he may be deceived by a likeness of names. But he's sure enough to say:
'Hope.' If he's right about the man, you may get further news almost any
minute by way of Switzerland or somewhere neutral. That's all. Yet it's
enough to show you what danger you're in. If Herter hadn't been
practically certain, he wouldn't have sent any message. He'd have
waited. Evidently you made him believe that you loved Jim Beckett, so he
wanted to prepare your mind by degrees. I suppose he imagined a shock of
joy might be dangerous. Well, you ought to thank Herter just the same
for sparing you a worse sort of shock. And I thank him, too, for it
gives me a great chance--the chance to save you. Mary, the time's come
for you and me to fade off the Beckett scene--together."

I listened without interrupting him once: at first, because I was
stunned, and a thousand thoughts beat dully against my brain without
finding their way in, as gulls beat their wings against the lamp of a
lighthouse; at last, because I wished to hear Julian O'Farrell to the
very end before I answered. I fancied that in answering I could better
marshal my own thoughts.

He misunderstood my silence--I expected him to do that, but I cared not
at all--so, when he had paused and still I said nothing, he went on: "Of
course I--for the best of reasons--know you didn't love Jim Beckett, and
couldn't love him."

Hearing those words of his, s