DEAR BILL,—
She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk. It had stuck half-way, as she remembered it often did. Bundle tugged at it impatiently but it did not move. She recalled that on a former occasion an envelope had been pushed back with it and had jammed it for the time being. She took a thin paperknife and slipped it into the narrow crack. She was so far successful that a corner of white paper showed. Bundle caught hold of it and drew it out. It was the first sheet of a letter, somewhat crumpled.
It was the date that first caught Bundle's eye. A big flourishing date that leaped out from the paper. Sept. 21st.
"September 21st," said Bundle slowly. "Why, surely that was—"
She broke off. Yes, she was sure of it. The 22nd was the day Gerry Wade was found dead. This, then, was a letter he must have been writing on the very evening of the tragedy.
Bundle smoothed it out and read it. It was unfinished.
"My Darling Loraine,—I will be down on Wednesday. Am feeling awfully fit and rather pleased with myself all round. It will be heavenly to see you. Look here, do forget what I said about that Seven Dials business. I thought it was going to be more or less of a joke, but it isn't—anything but. I'm sorry I ever said anything about it—it's not the kind of business kids like you ought to be mixed up in. So forget about it, see?
"Something else I wanted to tell you—but I'm so sleepy I can't keep my eyes open.
"Oh, about Lurcher; I think—"
Here the letter broke off.