"
The letter was signed simply--"Marie." But there was a postscript:
"You will hear from me the moment that I can tell you I am free at last."
Jimmie Dale sat staring at the postscript. He made no movement; and
there was no sound in the room, save that the sheets of paper crackled
slightly in his hand. He was afraid to-night, afraid as he had never
been in his life before; and the fear that was gnawing at his heart was
mirrored in a gray, rigid face, and in the misery that had crept into
the dark, half-closed eyes. It was three days ago since he had received
that letter, and the awaited, promised word had not come--three days,
and the letter stated that it would be but a matter of a few hours
before the decision that meant life or death was reached. And the
hurried little note, so obviously written subsequent to the letter,
though it had been received prior to it, but bore out in its very
optimism the fact that the final card was then almost in the very act of
being played. And since then--there had been nothing.
He put little faith in the Pippin's belief that she had gone to Chicago.
He found no relief in that possibility at all. That they had seen her
buy a ticket and board a train--yes.
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