"MY SISTER, ANNE----"
Slowly, Donald Morris put his hand inside the breast of his coat and
drew out several slightly crumpled sheets of paper. He spread them out
and his eyes rested tenderly on these words--
MY BELOVED----
I write it for the first--and perhaps, who knows--the last time.
But I have said it in my heart for so long--My beloved! I can say
it to you now without shame--after last night.
His eyes travelled on down the succeeding pages to the end. When he had
finished, he turned down the top of the first page.
"I will ask you not to read that." He addressed Clancy with a quiet
reserve which became him well. "It is significant only to me and, I
think, can have no bearing on what has happened. I will be glad if you
will read the rest."
He handed the letter to Clancy who scrutinized it closely. It was
evidently written in haste and under the stress of great excitement. He
read--
I did not sleep. I have been thinking and thinking--how much to
tell you--how to explain----
My sister Anne, with whom I live is----
(This last sentence was heavily crossed out, almost obliterated, but
Peter was sure that these were the words.) The letter went on--
No, I will not tell you about Anne, about the bitterness and
tragedy of my life. If it can be removed, if I escape, whole and
clean, I will come to you. There is danger, I know, on account
of----No, I cannot tell you the danger without explaining all. But
danger is nothing to me now. I will put fate to the test and have
done.
What I do I must do quickly, before my courage fails. If I were to
see you again----That can not be. I could not see you face to face
again and not tell you--and then----
No, I'm determined. I've let things go on too long. I saw it in
your dear face when I left you. I am determined that you shall make
no sacrifice for me.
If I fail, there will be no one left but Anne, and you will never
find her. She will see to that. If I succeed, I will come back
to you. I promise, my beloved, as solemnly as if I were on my
death-bed. I will come back and tell you all that I have hidden
so carefully, my ugly, pitiful secret, which is known to but one
person, now, in all the world--and after that, you may do as you
will with me.
If I never see you again, believe, oh, you must believe, that I
love you. That, knowing you as I have come to know you, I will
stake everything to come clean in your eyes, or I will never look
into your dear eyes again. I am thinking of you, my dearest in all
the world, only of you, and I beg, with my heart full of tears,
that if I fail, you will remember gently her whom you have known as
MARY BLAKE.
Peter sat for a long time after he had finished reading, lost in
thought. At last he stirred and, pointing to the signature, he said:
"Then Mary Blake is not her own name."
Morris shook his head. "No, I know that to be her stage name only," he
said, quietly.
"And her real name is?"
"I don't know."
Peter thought, "And yet he has asked her to be his wife. She must be a
wonder!" Aloud he said, referring to the letter:
"I think there is something here to account for your impression that
Miss Blake wasn't too keen on her sister Anne. At any rate, the sister
seems to be connected in some way with the thing that was troubling
her. Did you make out this blotted place? These words crossed out?"
He indicated with his finger. Donald bent above the crumpled sheet.
"Yes," he said, "I made it out to be, 'My sister Anne, with whom I
live, is'----"
"That's what I make it," said Clancy. "And then she speaks again, right
after it, of the bitterness and tragedy of her life, and it seems to
be in connection with Anne.... And here again," he turned the page,
"she says there will be no one left but Anne, and that you will never
find her. What does that mean? And who is the one person who knows her
secret? Surely her sister, who lives with her, would be the most likely
to----"
"And the danger," Morris broke in. "She speaks of danger. Oh, God! And
she isn't here and I don't know where she's gone!" He clenched his
hands upon the chair arms and looked at Peter in agonized entreaty.
"We'll take steps to find her," Peter said, firmly, encouragingly.
"And we'll start this instant. Come! We'll get the janitor up here and
see what he knows, since we're on the spot. He must know something, at
least, about their ordinary habits, whether a maid came in by the day,
who some of their friends are, possibly. We might get a clue, a hint,
from anywhere or anybody. You never can tell. We've got to trust a
good deal to luck. But you know 'the luck of the Irish'!" This with a
cheerful grin as he went toward the door. "I'll get the Dago first," he
said, and vanished.