By and by the door-bell rang. A servant entered.
“Here is a note, ma’am, a man just left,” she said to Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart read the note and passed it to Hetzel. It was written upon a half sheet of paper, headed in heavy black print, “City Prison.” It was brief:—
“My dear, dear Friend:—You must be anxious about me. I have tried hard to get word to you. At last they have found a messenger for me. You see by this letter-heading where I am. The advertisement was a trick. But it was worse, much worse, than you can fancy. If I could only see you! Will you come to me to-morrow morning? I am too heartsick to write, Ruth.”
Hetzel was returning the note to Mrs. Hart, when Arthur stretched out his hand for it.
“Am I not to read what my own wife has written?” he demanded fiercely.
He took in its contents at a glance. Even this sheet of common prison paper was sweet with that faint, evanescent perfume that clung to everything Ruth’s fingers touched. Letting it drop to the floor, “I can’t stand it,” he cried in a loud voice, and left the room.
They heard the vestibule door slam behind him.
“He is mad,” said Mrs. Hart. “He will do himself an injury.”
“No, he won’t—not if I can stop him,” said Hetzel; and he hurried forth upon Arthur’s track.