The rest was obvious. She had but just begun to write
when he had appeared on the steps. She had slipped instantly down to
the floor of the car, probably dropping the glove from her lap, hastily
inclosed the letter in the envelope which she had no time to seal,
thrust the envelope under the rug, and, forgetting her glove and fearful
of risking his attention by attempting to close the door firmly,
had stolen along the body of the car, only to be noticed by him too
late--when she was well down the street!
And at that latter thought, once more chagrin seized Jimmie Dale--then
he turned impulsively to the letter. All this was extraneous, apart--for
another time, when every moment was not a priceless asset as it very
probably was now.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--it always began that way, never any other
way. He read on more and more intently, crouched there close to the
light on the floor of his car, lips thinning as he proceeded--read it to
the end, absorbing, memorising it--and then the abortive postscript:
"Look in the cupboard at the rear of the room. The man with the red wig
is--"
For an instant, as mechanically he tore the letter into little shreds,
he held there hesitant--and the next, slamming the door tight, he flung
himself into the seat behind the wheel, and the big, sixty-horse-power,
self-starting machine was roaring down the street.
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