The clock above the Millwall Docks was striking eleven as the
colonel and I caught a bus that should carry us back to a brighter,
happier London. Hughes spoke but seldom on that ride; and, repeating
his advice that I humor Inspector Bray on the morrow, he left me in
the Strand.
So, my lady, here I sit in my study, waiting for that most important
day that is shortly to dawn. A full evening, you must admit. A
woman with the perfume of lilacs about her has threatened that unless
I lie I shall encounter consequences most unpleasant. A handsome
young lieutenant has begged me to tell that same lie for the honor
of his family, and thus condemn him to certain arrest and
imprisonment. And I have been down into hell, to-night and seen
Archibald Enwright, of Interlaken, conniving with the devil.
I presume I should go to bed; but I know I can not sleep. To-morrow
is to be, beyond all question, a red-letter day in the matter of
the captain's murder. And once again, against my will, I am
down to play a leading part.
The symphony of this great, gray, sad city is a mere hum in the
distance now, for it is nearly midnight. I shall mail this letter
to you--post it, I should say, since I am in London--and then I
shall wait in my dim rooms for the dawn. And as I wait I shall be
thinking not always of the captain, or his brother, or Hughes, or
Limehouse and Enwright, but often--oh, very often--of you.
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