At last she showed me the letter he had written. I was curious to see it, but had not ventured to ask for it.
“MY DEAR AMY,
“I think you will find everything all right in the flat. I have given Anne your instructions, and dinner will be ready for you and the children when you come. I shall not be there to meet you. I have made up my mind to live apart from you, and I am going to Paris in the morning. I shall post this letter on my arrival. I shall not come back. My decision is irrevocable.
“Yours always,
“CHARLES STRICKLAND.”
“Not a word of explanation or regret. Don’t you think it’s inhuman?”
“It’s a very strange letter under the circumstances,” I replied.
“There’s only one explanation, and that is that he’s not himself. I don’t know who this woman is who’s got hold of him, but she’s made him into another man. It’s evidently been going on a long time.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Fred found that out. My husband said he went to the club three or four nights a week to play bridge. Fred knows one of the members, and said something about Charles being a great bridge-player. The man was surprised. He said he’d never even seen Charles in the card-room. It’s quite clear now that when I thought Charles was at his club he was with her.”
I was silent for a moment. Then I thought of the children.