Double Trouble

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Tale of T

r that forward was New York. Backward was the void conjectural. Slowly the dawn whitened at the window. He raised the curtain and saw the rocks and fences and snow of a winter's landscape-saw them with a shock which, lying prone a

ed-in a natty business sack-suit of Scots-gray, a high turn-down collar, fine enamel shoes and a rather noticeable tie. Florian Amidon had always worn a decent buttoned-up frock and a polka-dot cravat of modest blue, which his haberdasher kept in stock especially for hi

s. Then he put them back, and went into the smoking-room, where, finding himself alone, he turned up his vest as if it had been worn by somebody else whom he was afraid of disturbing, and l

he, "bring my l

hat drummer-like way-he was already acting up to the s

, Bellevale, Pennsylvania! A card-case, his pocketbook, all his linen and his hat-all articles of expensive and gentlemanly quality, but strange to him-disclosed the same name or initials, none o

? During this time which has dropped out of my life, have I destroyed and des

pretended to busy himself with the letters in his pockets; and in doing so, he found in an inside vest-pocket a long thin pocket-book filled wit

on. Clearly, it seemed, he ought to open and examine these letters.

t any other form of address-an

ellar space to me. You said last night that all beauty, all sweetness, all things delectable and enticing and fair, all things which allure and enrapture, are so bound up in little me, that surely the very giants of steam and steel would be drawn back to me, instead of beari

ou have sometimes complained of a little for my coldness-had I not looked above your eyes, and put my hands behind me, I should have clung to you, dear, I was afraid, and never have allowed you to go as you are now going, and made you feel that I am not the perfect woman that you describe to me, as me. Even now, I fear that this letter will do me h

is taught to hide? This was the 'swan's nest among the reeds' which Little Ellie meant to show to that lover

eed.' Let the wild and flowery little pool of womanhood which is yours-yours, dearest-grow somewhat less strange to you than it would have been-la

ou

zabe

e embarrassment of a girl-at the fervid eloquence. And then he would feel a twing

how long ago she wrote it! Here's the date: 7th January, 1901. Odd, that she should mistake the year! But it was the 7th,

The letter had been written the preceding evening. Whatever had happened to this man Brassfield, had occurred within the past sixteen hours. And, great God! w