What, however, did
it matter? It was there mysteriously, as scores of others had come to
him mysteriously, with never a clew to her identity, to the identity of
his--he smiled a little grimly--accomplice in crime.
He took the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. His fingers had
not been at fault--it was one of hers. The faint, elusive, exquisite
fragrance of some rare perfume came to him as he held it.
"I'd give," said Jimmie Dale wistfully to himself--"I'd give everything
I own to know who you are--and some day, please God, I will know."
Jimmie Dale tore the envelope very gently, as though the tearing almost
were an act of desecration--and extracted the letter from within. He
began to read aloud hurriedly and in snatches:
"DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: Charleton Park Manor--Markel's house is the
second one from the gates on the right-hand side--library leads off
reception hall on left, door opposite staircase--telephone in reception
hall near vestibule entrance, left-hand side--safe is one of your
father's make, No. 14,321--clothes closet behind the desk--probably will
be kept in cash box--five servants; two men, three maids--quarters on
top story--Markel and wife occupy room over library--French windows to
dining room on opposite side of the house--opening on the lawn--get
it TO-NIGHT, Jimmie--TO-MORROW WOULD BE TOO LATE--dispose of it--see
fit--Henry Wilbur, Marshall Building, Broadway--fifth story--"
Through the glass-panelled front of the car, Jimmie Dale could see his
chauffeur's back, and the hand that held the letter dropped now to his
side, and Jimmie Dale stared--at his chauffeur's back.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92