His door was pushed open and the child ran in holding a letter in his red, chubby hand:
"A letter, daddy!" he cried.
He took it mechanically, staring at the inscription. He knew now the meaning of his horrible depression! She was writing that letter when it began yesterday. He recognized Cleo's handwriting at a glance, though this was unusually blurred and crooked. The postmark was Baltimore, another striking fact.
He laid the letter down on his table unopened and turned to mammy:
"Take him to your room. I'm trying to do some writing."
The old woman took the child's hand grumbling:
"Come on, mammy's darlin', nobody wants us!"
He closed the door, locked it, glanced savagely at the unopened letter, drew his chair before the open fire and gazed into the glowing coals.
He feared to break the seal—feared with a dull, sickening dread. He glanced at it again as though he were looking at a toad that had suddenly intruded into his room.
Six months had passed without a sign, and he had ceased to wonder at the strange calm with which she received her dismissal and his flight from the scene after his wife's death. He had begun to believe that her shadow would never again fall across his life.