“The brute—the utter brute,” thought Patricia—and then aloud, “Mr. Doe, I believe.”
“Yes, madam,” said a voice at last. “I’m John Doe—what can I do for you?”
“I came about the letters—the letters, you know, you wrote me about. I am prepared to—to redeem them.”
“H—m,” growled the overcoat. “It’s Crabb, isn’t it? Mrs. Crabb? I’m always getting the Cobb and Crabb letters mixed—six of one and half a dozen of the other——”
“I beg pardon,” faltered Patty.
“Cases very similar. Bad man—good woman. Trusting husband—hey? Well,” he muttered brutally, “did you bring the money?”
“It is here,” said Patricia, trembling. “Now the letters—and let me go.”
The man moved slowly toward a desk against the wall with his back still turned, took out a package, rose and, turning, handed it to Patricia.
Had her gaze not been fixed so eagerly upon the handwriting on the package she could not have failed to note the smiling gray eyes above the upturned coat collar.