“Get it, also a sheet of blank paper,” Nick directed. “This letter is written on only one side of the sheet. We can quickly unite the torn edges and paste it to the other.”
The task was completed in a few minutes. The following letter, dated two days before, and written in French with a pen and ink, then was brought to light:
“My Dear Pauline: You have made me heartless, thoroughly heartless, and I ought to hate you for it. I[Pg 12] am not sure that I do not. Though horribly averse to taking the hideous step upon which you insist, your threats leave me no sane alternative, none that would let me look my family and friends in the face.
“I submit to what you require, therefore, but I will not leave with you until Thursday. I must adjust many personal matters, and also prepare for the future. One cannot live on love and kisses.
“Make it Thursday, therefore, and in accord with the plans you have suggested. Not a word about it in the office to-morrow. It staggers me when I think of it, the horrible situation in which you have involved me. Some men would wipe you out of existence, as I perhaps shall—but, no, no, I could not live with human blood on my hands. Shame, sorrow, and remorse are terrible enough.
“After Thursday—— Well, we shall see!
“Arthur Gordon.”
“Great guns! What do you make of that, chief?” questioned Patsy, after both had read the letter, both being familiar with the French language.
“We will discuss it later,” Nick quietly replied. “This woman has ears, you know, and a tongue.”
“I’ve got you.”