That afternoon a servant brought him a letter. It was from her, the first of her handwriting he had ever seen.
“Dear Potter,” she began, addressing him by his given name, and he did not regard it as forward or provocative. It was merely due to the intimacy of their adventure with death, and natural to him. “I just found out you were able to read letters,” she went on. “You can’t imagine the pains people are at to keep news of you from me. It’s as if I’d tried to elope with you and been caught. You knew father shipped me away. You don’t know how glad I was to know that you are going to be all right again. Somehow I felt to blame.” How abruptly, jerkily she wrote, changing from one subject to another without warning. It was like her, he thought. “I don’t know when I shall be home, but I’m making myself as disagreeable as possible. I don’t think they’ll be able to stand me much longer. Then I’ll come to see you. It was great fun while it lasted. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a morning as much. There are things about it I don’t understand—where we were found, for instance. I thought we fell on an island. Didn’t you? I’ll write again when I can steal time. It’s the least I can do, and we’re pals. Aren’t we? Get well as quickly as you can and we’ll fly again. Is the ’plane fixed?” That was all. It stopped abruptly like that.
She wanted to fly with him again. He chuckled. A little thing like falling out of the sky would not damp her enthusiasm, and fear seemed to have no place in her vocabulary. She was the most utterly daring girl he had ever met, and the most reckless of consequences. He perceived her similarity to himself.
“Mr. La Mothe and Mr. Cantor to see you,” announced a servant.
“Send them up,” Potter directed, fumbling in his memory for the name Cantor, recollecting it was the chap he had met at the Country Club who had letters of introduction to him.
La Mothe and Cantor entered. Potter looked first at Cantor. There was something about the man, something that made his memory itch. He had seen Cantor somewhere, but where? What was there about the man? He noticed that Cantor scrutinized him tensely. It was as if the man were searching for something, something that he was afraid to find.
“Greetings, Potter,” said La Mothe. “You’re looking bang-up for a fellow that was all fitted to a coffin. We were taking up a subscription to send you a floral pillow.... You remember Cantor?”
“Yes,” said Potter, extending his hand. “You’re making quite a stay in Detroit.”
“He’s joined the lodge,” La Mothe remarked. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he squatted. Eh, Cantor?”
“I find Detroit very attractive, especially to a business man,” said Cantor. “I’ve even thought of making it my home.”