Peter was coming awake.
“God, Pete, I'm crazy! Don't you understand—She wasn't on the boat. Must have got the wrong one. Oh, it's awful!... I walked that deck nearly all night—got off way up the river and came back to New York with the milk cans. Something terrible may have happened.”
Peter sat up.
“It seems to me,” he said, rubbing his tousled head, “that I remember something—last night—”
Hy waited, panting.
“Look on the desk. Didn't I bring up a note or something and lay it there?”
Hy was on the desk like a panther. There was a note. He tore it open, then thrust it into Peter's hands, crying hoarsely, “Read it!”—and dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the Morris chair.
This was the note:
“Henry, I'm not going. I hope this reaches you in time. Please understand—forgive if you can. You won't see me again. B.”
Peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. His own none-too-clear eyes met Hy's distinctly bloodshot ones.