She compelled her fingers to tear the flap and to withdraw the letter—even to unfold it so that its contents were visible. Her eyes saw Evan’s neat, flawless handwriting, but her mind seemed suddenly numb, unable to make sense of the symbols set down upon the paper. She shook her head as if to clear it of something damp and heavy and obscuring, and forced herself to read.
“My Dear:” (The letter began, and she read over and over those two intimate words)—“My dear: If you find this letter—if I have not returned to take it from the place in which I have hidden it for you, I am quite sure I shall not see you again. In view of this possibility I am presuming to say good-by.” Even now, she saw, something of his pedantic precision must creep in. It would not have crept in, she felt sure, had he not been under some strong emotion, had he not felt the necessity for concealing his emotion. “I have told you before,” the letter continued, “that I love you. I have not told you how I have come willingly, eagerly to love you. You, and you alone—the fact of your existence, your loveliness—have made what I fancy are notable changes in me. I even go so far as to imagine I might, with time and persistence, become the sort of man who would be entitled to your friendship, if nothing more. But, if this letter reaches your eyes, that is, I fear, no longer possible. I think I have done as I should, although I have practiced deception. When you remember I did this because I loved you, I trust you will find it in your heart to forgive me.
“To-day there came a note to you which I intercepted. It purported to come from some disgruntled man, telling you how you could obtain evidence against these liquor smugglers by going to the Lakeside Hotel. I rather fancied it was not genuine, and was meant rather to induce your presence than to betray confederates. On the other hand, it might be authentic. I therefore urged you to make the journey upon which you have just been engaged, and, because it seemed right to do so, I am going to-night to test the authenticity of the letter.”
She saw, she understood!
“If it prove to be a lure, such as was used to the undoing of Sheriff Churchill, there is some small chance I shall not return. Naturally I shall observe every caution. But if precautions fail and I do not return, you will find in a box in my room such evidence and information as I have collected. It does not reach the man we wish to reach, but it moves toward him. I hope you will be able to make use of it.”
He could write so stiltedly of making use of his work when he was, open-eyed, going out to walk into the trap prepared for her!
“Therefore,” the letter concluded, “good-by. My going will mean little to you; it means little to me, except the parting from you. If you find time to think of me at all, I hope you will think of me as continuing always to love you wherever it may be I have journeyed. Good-by.”
At the end he had signed his name.
She sat for a moment as though turned to stone. Her heart was dead, her faculties benumbed.... He was dead! She had found and read the letter, so he must be dead—vanished as Sheriff Churchill had vanished, never to be seen again by mortal eye.... And for her! He had gone out calmly, serenely, to face whatever might beset his path—for her. He had given his life for her, to preserve her life!
She sat very still. Her cheeks were white and she was cold, cold as death. No sound came from her compressed lips. Dead!... Evan Pell was dead!