“Here, I wrote it down so as not to forget,” and O’Hara, after fumbling in his breast pocket, produced an envelope on which was written:
Overcome with joy. I never gave up hope. God bless you.—Mother.
Grey turned to the window again, his eyes as wet as the panes. After a little he asked:
“And that was the only one?”
Then Hope had not answered. She believed him guilty, of course. It would have been better to have let her, like the rest of the world, think him dead. What a trickster is the weaver of dreams! How real had seemed his vision, and yet how untrue! And he had thought of going to her as fast as the speediest ocean liner could take him. Oh, yes, he was awake now; wide, wide awake.
“I couldn’t get the box at the Gare du Nord,” O’Hara continued. “They’d given a brass or something for it and had no record of your name or Schlippenbach’s either. You had better ask Johann about it, or Lutz.”
“I will,” said Grey.
A hearse had stopped before the door, and he began now putting on his gloves.
“No,” he added as he buttoned the grey suèdes, “I’m not going back to America, O’Hara. Maybe I’ll never go back. I’m going to Schlippenbach’s funeral now, and I’m going to follow this thing to the end of the route if it takes me through hell.” His face was very set and solemn, and he spoke with a determination that made O’Hara’s eyes dance.