"It all depends
on what you think of the writer."
"Answer one more question. By whom is the letter signed?"
"There is no signature, Madam. It was found in the house where the two
young men lived. Our people searched the house from top to bottom
surreptitiously, and they think the writer was arrested before he had
finished the letter. There is no address, and nothing to show for whom
it is intended, except the phrase beginning, 'My dearest Dorothy.'"
The girl leaned back in her chair, and drew a long breath. "It is not
for me," she said, hastily; then bending forward, she cried suddenly:
"I agree to your terms: give it to me."
The man hesitated, fumbling in his inside pocket.
"I was to get your promise in writing," he demurred.
"Give it to me, give it to me," she demanded. "I do not break my
word."
He handed her the letter.
"My dearest Dorothy," she read, in writing well known to her. "You may
judge my exalted state of mind when you see that I dare venture on
such a beginning. I have been worrying myself and other people all to
no purpose. I have received a letter from Jack this morning, and so
suspicious had I grown that for a few moments I suspected the writing
was but an imitation of his. He is a very impulsive fellow, and can
think of only one thing at a time, which accounts for his success in
the line of invention. He was telegraphed to that his sister was ill,
and left at once to see her.
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