in the ivy that climbs
my wall, in the soft murky folds of my curtains. Whispers--what?

Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my letters
to you. They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.

And so--good night.

THE STRAWBERRY MAN.

CHAPTER III

With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texas
statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at the
Carlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle from the
strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All day, as she
dragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself looking
forward to another morning, wondering, eager.

But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom this
odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The news
rather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted on
returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out,
they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was rewarded.
Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.

DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning,
with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so late in
getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday;
not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening to
address you. Believe me, only the most startling, the most appalling
accident could have held me up.

That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.

I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and terrible
sentence. And I could write that sentence. A tragedy, wrapped in mystery
as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen our quiet little house in
Adelphi Terrace. In their basement room the Walters family, sleepless,
overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear at
intervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions--But no; I must go back
to the very start of it all:

Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson's, in the Strand--so early
that I was practically alone in the restaurant. The letter I was about
to write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having quickly dined, I
hurried back to my rooms. I remember clearly that, as I stood in the
street before our house fumbling for my keys, Big Ben on the Parliament
Buildings struck the hour of seven. The chime of the great bell rang out
in our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and