“... the position of the body removes any doubt there may have been as to the manner in which the man met his death. The features of the two crimes are almost identical....”
So he wrote at feverish haste for half-an-hour, and the night editor, cutting out the superfluous “darlings” that appeared mysteriously in the copy, formed a pretty clear idea as to what Tab had been writing when he was interrupted.
Tab posted the letter, went home, and began another, this being the way of youth.
It was all a dream, he told himself when the morning came. It could not be true. And yet there was a fat envelope containing the letter he had written overnight, awaiting the post.
Tab opened the letter and added seven pages of postscript.
Later in the morning he asked Jacques, the news editor, if he believed in long engagements. He asked this casually as one who was seeking information for business purposes.
“No,” said Jacques decisively, “I don’t. I believe after a man has been two or three years on a newspaper he gets stale, and ought to be fired.”
Tab had not the moral courage to explain the kind of engagement he meant.
That day the weather broke. The rain shot down from low-hanging clouds, the temperature fell twelve degrees. Nevertheless, he thought longingly of the garden of Stone Cottage. It would be snug under the trees, snugger still in that long, low-ceilinged sitting-room of hers. Tab heaved a deep sigh and strolled off to fulfil his promise to Rex.
Rex was full of his new scheme, and dragged his visitor into the bedroom where blue prints and maps and plans seemed to cover every available surface.