“'P.S.— I could never feel sure, too, that my maids would not pick it up, and perhaps take harm.'.rdquo;
“I had that only this morning.”
Gregory buried his face in his hands, and sitting thus he looked so like a man praying that no one spoke. When he raised his face it was to say:
“Not 'forgive,' Mrs. Shortman, not 'forgive'.”
Mrs. Shortman ran her pen through the word.
“Very well, Mr. Vigil,” she said; “it's a risk.”
The sound of the typewriter, which had been hushed, began again from the corner.
“That case of drink, Mr. Vigil— Millicent Porter— I'm afraid there's very little hope there.”
Gregory asked:
“What now?”