"Why, yes, darling. There were only a few. You wrote them when I was in Europe. They were all I had—those few little letters, and the photograph. You remember—the one you gave me——"
"But—I don't understand——"
"I always kept it on my desk at home," he continued, ignoring the interruption. "And your letters, too—all sealed in a big envelope. And the morning I went away I bound the picture to the envelope and put it in my pocket, and I have always kept it with me.
"A thousand times, dear, I have looked at the picture. It has been my fetish—the little amulet that keeps a man from harm. And whether or not it has succeeded, dear heart, you must judge for yourself."
"But, the letters—you never took them out—never read them?" The man was surprised at the intense eagerness of her tone.
"No," he answered, "I never read them. You see, it got to be a sort of game with me. It was a big game that I played against myself, and when I was sure I had won I was going to open the letters."
He paused and looked into the girl's eyes. "And then, one day I happened to read in an old newspaper the account of your engagement to St. Ledger. I almost lost the game, then—but I didn't. And—after that—the letters never were the same, and I—I just played the game to win."
There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she clutched at his hand.
"But the bonds?" she cried. The man regarded her with a puzzled look.
"Bonds—bonds—what bonds?"