"He has had time since he wintered in that harbor. One summer would be enough. He may have done it--if his dogs lived. There's always that condition. If his dogs lived! Mine didn't. Perhaps--perhaps--" He broke off abruptly and thrust the letter back into Cynthia's hand.
"You open it! You can tell me what he says."
Harry Rames walked again to the window and stood with his back to the room. Cynthia's eyes followed him and travelled past him once more to the garden. She was sure that she would never forget those daffodils and the purple crocuses waving in the sunlight for one day as long as she lived. A minute ago she had noticed them; now she noticed them again; and within that minute had been revealed to her the great secret Harry Rames had been at so much pains to hide. She knew her rival now, and was appalled. "Such men are driven by a torment of their souls." It was Harry himself who had said that. The wish came to her, "If only this man has succeeded." She tore open the envelope.
Harry Rames stood at the window waiting for the letter to be read to him; and it seemed to him that he waited for an eternity. He had heard the tearing of the envelope. The letter was open in Cynthia's hands. Yet she did not speak a word. Rames's heart sank.
"Then he has reached the Pole?" he asked with a studied carelessness.
"I don't know," Cynthia replied in perplexity.
"Read it."
"There is nothing to read."
Rames turned round and came swiftly toward her.
"He must have forgotten to enclose his letter. There is nothing but this," said Cynthia. She was holding a single blank sheet of note-paper in her hand. She turned it over. "No, there's not a word written anywhere. Do you understand it?"