The Last Woman

"The letter! May I see it?"

The lawyer methodically took a red-leather pocketbook from his coat, extracted an envelope therefrom, and passed it across the table to Duncan.

"Dear Mr. Melvin," the young man read, half-aloud, although to himself, "I am at Three-Star ranch, one of the properties of Mr. Richard Morton, in Montana. The full address is inclosed, written upon an additional slip of paper which I trust you will destroy at once; also this letter. I am with Mr. Morton; I am caring for him. More than that, you need not know. I desire you to tell my father that it is my wish to forego any inheritance I might have received from him, but that if he is disposed to make any present settlement upon me, I shall cheerfully receive it. I shall not communicate with him; I do not wish him to communicate with me. I cannot command your silence, or his, concerning me; but I expect it. Unless he should demand of you knowledge of my place of abode, I prefer that you withhold it from him. Concerning others, I implore your entire silence and discretion. I shall communicate with you again only in the event that it should become necessary to do so.--Patricia Langdon."

The letter fluttered from Duncan's hands to the floor. He bent forward and picked it up, his face white and drawn and set and suddenly haggard. He folded the letter carefully, returned it to the envelope, and then, with slow precision, tore it into bits, carried the mass of fragments to the hearth, piled them into a heap and touched a lighted match to it. The lawyer watched the proceeding without emotion, without a change of expression. But he gave a slight nod of satisfaction when it was done.

Duncan did not return to his chair. He stood for a moment before the hearth, with his back turned toward the lawyer; then he wheeled about and came forward three steps, until he could reach his hat which was on the table.

"Thank you, Melvin," he said. "I shall entirely respect your confidence. Good-day."

"Where are you going, Duncan?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought of that--yet."

The lawyer rose from his chair, and rested the tips of his fingers on the table in front of him, bending slightly forward.

"She was a good girl; and you loved her. Don't forget that," he said.

"No; I won't forget it, Melvin."

"And--there are others, just as good; don't forget that, either."

"No. There are no others like her. She was the last woman--for me; the last woman; and she is dead."