"The way you're behaving now."
Cooper turned around. The corner of his mouth was ticking. "Hell!" he burst out. "What's the sense of pussy-footing? He's writing those letters, Gabby. I know that."
"How long have you known?"
"Since last week when he showed me the photostats." Cooper loped into his bedroom and came out a moment later with three paper slips from a telephone pad. He handed them to Gabby. They were covered with the same hysterical scrawl, matching the writing on the latest letter.
"He has an unconscious habit," Cooper explained. "He scribbles with his left hand when he's extra nervous. While he's talking on the phone. When he's reading. It's almost like automatic writing. He doesn't do it all the time ... just occasionally, but you can't miss it. The minute I saw those photostats, I knew."
"Does he know?" Gabby asked.
"No. That's what makes it hell."
"We can't let him find out, Sam."
"Maybe he ought to know."
"Maybe later, but not now. It would be disastrous for him. We've got to protect him."