There was an
almost inaudible sound, a faint metallic _snip_, as, kneeling, his
fingers loosened the hidden catch beneath the sill--and the window on
well-oiled hinges swung silently inward, and closed as silently again
behind Jimmie Dale as he entered.
The top-light, high up near the ceiling, threw a misty ray of moonlight
along the greasy, threadbare carpet, and threw into relief a folded
piece of dark-coloured paper at Jimmie Dale's feet. He stooped and
picked it up--and then moving close to the window again, his fingers, in
the darkness, felt over the dilapidated roller shade to assure himself
that the rents were securely pinned together against the possibility of
prying eyes. He stepped quickly then across the room, tested the door
lock; and then the single gas-jet, air-choked, hissing spitefully,
illuminated the room with a wavering meagre yellow flame.
Under the light, Jimmie Dale unfolded the paper, his face hardening
suddenly. It was not like any note she had ever written him
before--there was no white envelope here, no paper of fine and delicate
texture, no ink-written message carefully penned; instead, evidence
enough of her desperate haste, the desperate circumstances probably
under which she had written it, the message was on a torn piece of brown
wrapping paper, and the words, in pencil, were scrawled in hurried,
broken sentences.
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