“You needn’t fear Jameson,” remarked Kennedy.
He fumbled in his pocket, then paused a moment and shot a glance of inquiry at Waldon, who nodded a mute acquiescence to him.
“There seem to have been a number of very peculiar disappearances lately,” resumed Kennedy, “but this case of Mrs. Edwards is by far the most extraordinary. Of course the Star hasn’t had that—yet,” he concluded, handing me a sheet of notepaper.
“Mr. Waldon didn’t give it out, hoping to avoid scandal.”
I took the paper and read eagerly, in a woman’s hand:
“MY DEAR MISS FOX: I have been down here at Seaville on our houseboat, the Lucie, for several days for a purpose which now is accomplished.
“Already I had my suspicions of you, from a source which I need not name. Therefore, when the Kronprinz got into wireless communication with the station at Seaville I determined through our own wireless on the Lucie to overhear whether there would be any exchange of messages between my husband and yourself.
“I was able to overhear the whole thing and I want you to know that your secret is no longer a secret from me, and that I have already told Mr. Edwards that I know it. You ruin his life by your intimacy which you seem to want to keep up, although you know you have no right to do it, but you shall not ruin mine.
“I am thoroughly disillusioned now. I have not decided on what steps to take, but—”
Only a casual glance was necessary to show me that the writing seemed to grow more and more weak as it progressed, and the note stopped abruptly, as if the writer had been suddenly interrupted or some new idea had occurred to her.