“‘Good-bye, Margaret, my dear,’ I said. ‘Good-bye!’
“She said nothing, but the eyes that met mine were dim and very tender.
“And as I walked down the street I pondered the contradictions, the inequalities of life. Only a few minutes ago she was praying to be rid of him, and now she could ask for nothing better than to be for all time within his arms.”
He paused; for comment; for encouragement.
“And the sequel?” I said.
He smiled.
“Three days later,” he said, “I met her at a friend’s house.
“‘So it’s over?’ I said to her.
“She nodded.
“‘And have you any idea who wrote the letter?’