“Do you think it worth ten thousand dollars?”
The sailor looked up at the decorated ceiling for several moments before he replied.
“That is a question I cannot answer,” he said at last. “It all depends on what you think of the writer.”
“Answer one more question. By whom is the letter signed?”
“There is no signature, Madam. It was found in the house where the two young men lived. Our people searched the house from top to bottom surreptitiously, and they think the writer was arrested before he had finished the letter. There is no address, and nothing to show for whom it is intended, except the phrase beginning, ‘My dearest Dorothy.’”
The girl leaned back in her chair, and drew a long breath. “It is not for me,” she said, hastily; then bending forward, she cried suddenly:
“I agree to your terms: give it to me.”
The man hesitated, fumbling in his inside pocket.
“I was to get your promise in writing,” he demurred.
“Give it to me, give it to me,” she demanded. “I do not break my word.”