Jimmy Wren made his way to the cushioned window-seat, and with a sigh of relaxation settled down with a cigar. Mrs. Fowler's apartment was on the second floor, the windows overlooking the flashing street below, and the cool green distances of Central Park across the way were just emerging into the virginal glow of springtime.
The restful quiet of the room soothed Jimmy Wren's nerves; the silence, the sense of being at home, were grateful in the extreme. He watched the slithering motors in the street below, the glint of water and the thronging people in the park opposite, and felt himself gradually return to normal. Presently Mrs. Fowler would come, and a bit of music, a little sympathetic talk, would clear the blues from his mind.
After a bit he rose, abandoned his occupation, and began to walk about the room, seeking something to divert his thoughts. In one corner stood Mrs. Fowler's desk. It was open, and the noon edition of a paper lay upon it, an inkwell weighting down the newspaper. Pausing idly beside the desk, never thinking that the newspaper might have been so placed designedly, Jimmy Wren removed it and opened it out, glancing through the columns and scanning the headlines with careless gaze.
Then he turned and put down the paper—and as he did so, observed two objects over which it had originally been laid. One of these objects was a check; the other was an unsigned note.
Jimmy Wren stared down, absolutely petrified by the thing he saw, his eyes widening in fearful and terrible comprehension. For a long moment the written words did not penetrate to his consciousness. It was only the handwriting that he saw, the handwriting that smote into him with an actual physical shock, blinding him to everything but the staggering realization of its presence here on Mrs. Fowler's desk.
No one who had ever seen it could forget that bold, angular, masterful handwriting of Lawrence Macgowan.
Wren wet his lips, swallowed hard, stunned beyond any swift recovery. Mrs. Fowler did not know Macgowan, except very slightly indeed, and certainly had no use whatever for the man; indeed, Wren had very often discussed Macgowan's acts and schemes with her, feeling a sympathy and comprehension on her part which was very grateful. Her detestation of Macgowan's type of man was intense.
Then, why this letter—this communication with Macgowan?
Startled, angered, a flood of horrible suspicion searing into his soul, Jimmy Wren reached down and picked up that sheet of notepaper bearing the few lines of writing. Not until then did the words achieve impact upon his brain, but now that impact came with astounding and terrific force:
"Dear Viola: Herewith a check in the usual form, on account. During the next few days I want the fullest possible information. Then we'll hold that party of celebration."