"The boat train leaves at ten Thursday morning," he said. "Take your

last look at Europe and be ready."

Three days! His daughter listened with sinking heart. Could she in three

days' time learn the end of that strange mystery, know the final fate

of the man who had first addressed her so unconventionally in a public

print? Why, at the end of three days he might still be in Scotland Yard,

a prisoner! She could not leave if that were true--she simply could not.

Almost she was on the point of telling her father the story of the whole

affair, confident that she could soothe his anger and enlist his aid.

She decided to wait until the next morning; and, if no letter came

then-But on Tuesday morning a letter did come and the beginning of it brought

pleasant news. The beginning--yes. But the end! This was the letter: DEAR ANXIOUS LADY: Is it too much for me to assume that you have been

just that, knowing as you did that I was locked up for the murder of a

captain in the Indian Army, with the evidence all against me and hope a

very still small voice indeed?

Well, dear lady, be anxious no longer. I have just lived through the

most astounding day of all the astounding days that have been my portion

since last Thursday. And now, in the dusk, I sit again in my rooms, a

free man, and write to you in what peace and quiet I can command after

the startling adventure through which I have recently passed.

Suspicion no longer points to me; constables no longer eye me; Scotland

Yard is not even slightly interested in me. For the murderer of Captain

Fraser-Freer has been caught at last!

Sunday night I spent ingloriously in a cell in Scotland Yard. I could

not sleep. I had so much to think of--you, for example, and at intervals

how I might escape from the folds of the net that had closed so tightly

about me. My friend at the consulate, Watson, called on me late in

the evening; and he was very kind. But there was a note lacking in

his voice, and after, he was gone the terrible certainty came into my

mind--he believed that I was guilty after all.

The night passed, and a goodly portion of to-day went by--as the poets

say--with lagging feet. I thought of London, yellow in the sun. I

thought of the Carlton--I suppose there are no more strawberries by this

time. And my waiter--that stiff-backed Prussian--is home in Deutschland

now, I presume, marching with his regiment. I thought of you.




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