"Ich selbst." He struck his
breast and ventured on the liberty of a smile--a smile slow and sinister,
one that called for an understanding and challenged co-operation.
One might have fancied such a conjunction effected when, an evening or
two later, Truesdale received a "note" from Gladys McKenna. As he sifted
apart its numerous sheets he tried to recall whether he had replied to
her last; he could not remember having done so. "But sometimes they
_will_ write," he said, discontentedly, "and nothing can stop them."
Her pages led him a rough and rugged chase. She wrote a large, hasty
hand, with an unstinted expenditure of ink. "I declare," he said, running
several sheets over in succession, "she gets blinder and blinder the
further along she goes. And now"--turning back to the beginning--"let's
see what it's all about."
The letter assumed from the outset a mysterious and melodramatic
tone. "Perhaps, finally, she really has something to say," commented
Truesdale. But she went on, circling round her theme, dipping down to it
now and again, and then soaring up and away from it altogether. "Well,"
asked Truesdale presently, with a slight show of impatience, "what is
it?--something she doesn't fully understand, or something she does
understand but can't bring herself to write about? She 'listened,' she
says; to very small purpose, say I." He felt one moment that she was
more or less in the dark; the next, that she was making passes at some
forbidden theme; the third, that she was asking a more ardent recognition
of her loyalty and devotion.
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