By the time she had got through the four, he had finished the last one, and she read that, too. He looked at her as she stood by the window and felt no compunction at all for what he planned to do: the fact that, having read the letters, she could still insist on sending them, was added justification. He was thankful he had found a way to take care of her as she deserved.
“I guess they’re all right. That ought to get ’em,” she said. “Where are the envelopes?”
“I’ll type them now and mail them after lunch.”
“Will you really?” He hadn’t actually expected to get away with it that easily. “You just type the envelopes and I’ll take care of the rest.”
He typed the envelopes carefully, exactly duplicating the format of the others he had put in his pocket. And it was time, he thought, to start placating her if he hoped to get her to accompany him to the theatre.
“Look, Helen—” He inserted an envelope in the machine. “I’m not going to double-cross you. I don’t like doing this thing, but I have no choice. Now that I’ve written the letters, I’m as anxious to get it over with as you are. But it’ll be at least a week before we hear from them all, so we’re stuck here in this house together for at least that long. How about a truce?”
She looked at him with an amused smile.
“Really scared, aren’t you?”
He hung on to himself with an effort and hoped the hatred didn’t show in his eyes.
“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that we can both give each other a very unpleasant week. But what do we gain by it — either of us?”