It ran:
DEAR LADY FROM HOME: I call you that because the word home has for
me, this hot afternoon in London, about the sweetest sound word
ever had. I can see, when I close my eyes, Broadway at midday;
Fifth Avenue, gay and colorful, even with all the best people away;
Washington Square, cool under the trees, lovely and desirable
despite the presence everywhere of alien neighbors from the district
to the South. I long for home with an ardent longing; never was
London so cruel, so hopeless, so drab, in my eyes. For, as I write
this, a constable sits at my elbow, and he and I are shortly to
start for Scotland Yard. I have been arrested as a suspect in the
case of Captain Fraser-Freer's murder!
I predicted last night that this was to be a red-letter day in the
history of that case, and I also saw myself an unwilling actor in
the drama. But little did I suspect the series of astonishing
events that was to come with the morning; little did I dream that
the net I have been dreading would to-day engulf me. I can scarcely
blame Inspector Bray for holding me; what I can not understand is
why Colonel Hughes--
But you want, of course, the whole story from the beginning; and I
shall give it to you. At eleven o'clock this morning a constable
called on me at my rooms and informed me that I was wanted at once
by the Chief Inspector at the Yard.
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