Out of breath she collapsed on her narrow iron bed; lay realizing, not only the significance to herself of what she had overheard, but its meaning to the two principals as well.
So that was the hideous bond that tied them. That was why each pretended an affection for, considered and, if need be, defended the other. They had paid a human life for love and found that crime brought only mutual contempt.
Through the realization of what enforced their hostile, yet voluntary companionship came personal anxiety. Her letter—what if he should notice and examine it? Why hadn’t she taken it out and posted it herself?
But there was no time to be wasted over futile afterthoughts. She could not chance his reading so much as the address. She must recover her letter.
From the head of the stairs she could not see whether or not it still lay on the table, which stood in the hall near the street entrance. She could see, however, that the door marked “PRIVATE” was ajar. As no sound of voices came to her, she concluded that the two in the hateful lockstep must have gone. She counted possible costs, then again descended the stairs.
They stood beside the table. Not until she saw their faces would she believe the worst. Not only had he noticed the address of the letter, but had opened and was reading it.
A smile was on his face—the æsthetic, pale-eyed, appealing face of Vincent Seff. His agreeable laugh sounded as he turned to Mrs. Hutton.
“Of all the chickens to come home to roost in the coop of little Vin! You remember that pugilistic Puritan, John Cabot? As addressed to him, Mary, what can these hieroglyphics mean? Listen:
“‘Soon a rosebud will open its petals to the world. I may not stay to care for it. I depend on you.’”
Impulse ruled Dolores. She crossed the hall; stretched out her hand for the letter; faced them.