ck seal.
The address was in a writing he had never seen before, but the instant
it fell under his eye he was struck with a distinctly pleasurable
excitement.

Whether through some spiritual exhalation of the writer fragrant on
any missive, or because of a hundred microscopic impressions, there are
analysts who are able to select, from a pile of letters written by women
(for the writing of women exhibits certain phenomena more determinably
than that of men) those of the prettiest or otherwise most attractive.
And out upon the lover who does not recognize his mistress's hand at the
first glimpse ever he has of it, without post-mark or other information
to aid him! Thus Vanrevel, worn, hollow-eyed, and sallow, in the Rouen
post-office, held the one letter separate from a dozen (the latter not,
indeed, from women), and stared at it until a little color came back
to his dark skin and a great deal of brightness to his eye. He was no
analyst of handwritings, yet it came to him instantly that this note
was from a pretty woman. To see that it was from a woman was simple,
but that he knew--and he did know--that she was pretty, savors of the
occult. More than this: there was something about it that thrilled
him. Suddenly, and without reason, he knew that it came from Elizabeth
Carewe.

He walked back quickly to his office with the letter in the left pocket
of his coat, threw the bundle of general correspondence upon his desk,
went up to the floor above, and paused at his own door to listen. Deep
breathing from across the hall indicated that Mr. Gray's soul was
still encased in slumber, and great was its need, as Tom had found his
partner, that morning at five, stretched upon the horsehair sofa in the
office, lamenting the emptiness of a bottle which had been filled with
fiery Bourbon in the afternoon.

Vanrevel went to his own room, locked the door, and took the letter from
his pocket. He held it between his fingers carefully, as though it were
alive and very fragile, and he looked at it a long time, holding it
first in one hand, then in the other, before he opened it. At last,
however, after examining all the blades of his pocketknife, he selected
one brighter than the others, and loosened the flap of the envelope as
gently and carefully as if it had been the petal of a rose-bud that he
was opening.

"Dear Mr. Vanrevel:

"I believed you last night, though I did not understand. But I
understand, now--everything--and, bitt