Around a bunch of pinks a paper was twisted, and on it was written:
“Carl is doing better. He has sent the silver back, and seen the gendarme.
Ursula.”
I cried when Mary read me the note, which I still have, together with a few of the faded pinks pressed between the leaves of my Bible. I cried again when another bouquet came, this time beautiful hothouse roses, tied with a broad white ribbon, to which was attached a card with the words: “To our friend, A. N.”
“‘God Bless You!’ he said ... and then he was started for the gloomy fortress.”
“A. N.,” I repeated. “Who is ‘A. N.’? I know no one with those initials.”
“I have it!” Mary exclaimed, after a moment. “‘A. N.,’ a nihilist! That is what it is, and all these flowers are from the same source—nihilists, I mean. They have heard a lot about you and wish to show their gratitude.”
“But I am not a nihilist!” I said.
“No,” Mary replied, “but you have got your name mixed up with them, defying Paul Strigoff to his face, and letting Carl somebody go, and calling on an old lady who was once in prison, and a lot more we have heard, until I believe the hotel people begin to think they are harboring a suspect and will be glad when we are gone.”