“You’ll write him, Patty, won’t you?” he said, as he went out.
“Yes—yes,” she answered, quickly, “I will—I’ll write him.”
Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see.
Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can’t ride to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three. Until then—
As ever,
P.
CHAPTER XVI
Patricia awoke rudely and with an appalling sense that she had made a shocking fool of herself. Heywood Pennington suddenly vanished out of her life as completely as though Fifth Avenue had opened and swallowed him. Very suddenly he had left New York, they said. And upon her breakfast tray one morning Patricia found the following in a handwriting unfamiliar and evidently disguised:
March 12, 19—