After carefully reading it through, I placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to her, “to be opened after my departure.”
The hours had crept on unnoticed; the servant had long ago come in for the purpose of dusting the place, but, seeing me, had retired. Just as I had written the superscription on the envelope the door again opened, and I found myself face to face with Vera.
Chapter Twenty.
A Mystery Still.
I rose with a resolute determination that it should be our last interview.
“Why, Frank,” she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise, as she advanced, “you haven’t been to bed, and—why, what’s the matter, dear?” she added, noticing the expression of anger upon my countenance.
“You ought to know well enough,” I replied sternly.
“How should I know?” she asked. “Why, the gas is still burning! Surely you’ve not been writing all night!”