Peter, with a tremor, unfolded the envelope and peered inside. There were two enclosures—one plainly his scribbled note to Sue; the other (he had to draw it partly out and examine it)—yes—no—yes, his anonymous letter, much crumpled.
Deliberately, rather white about the mouth, Peter moved to the fireplace, touched a match to the papers and watched them burn. That done, he turned and queried:
“Well? That all?”
The Worm shook his head. “Not quite all, Pete.”
Words suddenly came from Peter. “What do I care for that girl! A creative artist has his reactions, of course. He even does foolish things. Look at Wagner, Burns, Cellini, Michael Angelo—look at the things they used to do!...”
The words stopped.
“Her message is,” continued the Worm, “the suggestion that next time you write one of them with your left hand.”
Peter thought this over. The check glowed next to his heart. It thrilled him. “You tell your friend Sue Wilde,” he replied then, with dignity, “that my message to her—and to you—will be delivered next September across the footlights of the Astoria Theater.” And he strode into the bedroom.
The Worm looked after him with quizzical eyes, smiled a little and resumed his book.