“More than you loved Doctor Waring?”
Their eyes met. Lockwood’s usually inscrutable face was desperately eager, and his deep eyes showed smouldering passion. He held her by the shoulders, he looked steadily at her, awaiting her answer.
“Yes,” she said, at last, her lovely lips quivering.
“That’s all I want to know!” he whispered, triumphantly, as he kissed the scarlet lips, and drew the slender form into his embrace.
“You must know more—” she began, “and—and I can’t tell you. Oh, Gordon—”
She hid her face on his broad shoulder, and he gently stroked her hair, as he said:
“Don’t tell me anything now, dearest. Don’t ever tell me, unless you choose. And, anyway, I know it all. I know you had never known the Doctor before, and I’ll tell you how I know. I found in his scrap basket a note to you—”
“A note to me!” Fresh terror showed in the dark eyes.
“Yes—don’t mind. No one else ever saw it. I burned it. But it said, ‘Darling Anita. Since you came into my life, life is worth living’—or something like that—”
“When—when did he write that?”