The Letter of the Contract | Page 3

sure which--but while giving him the note to post
she ventured to say, "You're not worried about anything, are you?"
"Not in the least." He seemed to smother the words by stooping to kiss
her good-by.

She followed him to the door. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if you were
worried?"
For the second time he stooped and kissed her, again smothering the
words, "Yes, dear; but I'm not."
She stood staring at the glass door after he had closed it behind him.
"Oh, what is it?" she questioned. Within less than an hour the world
had become peopled with fears, and all she could do was to stare at the
door through which she could still see him dimly.
She could see him dimly, but plainly, for the curtain of patterned
filet-work hanging flat against the glass was almost transparent from
within the house, though impenetrable from outside. Was it her
imagination that saw him look cautiously round before leaving the
protection of the doorway? Was it her imagination that watched while
he crossed the pavement hurriedly, to spring into the automobile before
he could be observed? Was it only the needless alarm of a foolish
woman that thought him anxious to reach the shelter of the motor lest
he should be approached or accosted? She tried to think so. It was
easier to question her own sanity than to doubt him. She would not
doubt him. She assured herself of that as she returned to her post in the
oriel window.
The girl in gray was gone, and down the long street, over which there
was a thin glaze of ice, the motor was creeping carefully. She watched
it because he was inside. It was all she should see of him till nightfall.
The whole of the long day must be passed with this strange new
something in her heart--this something that wasn't anything. If he
would only come back for a minute and put his arms about her and let
her look up into his face she would know it wasn't anything. She did
know it; she said so again and again. But if he would only discover that
he had forgotten something--a handkerchief or his cigar-case; that did
happen occasionally....
And then it was as if her prayer was to be answered while still on her
lips. Before the vehicle had got so far away as to be indistinguishable
from other vehicles she saw it stop. It stopped and turned. She held her

breath. Slowly, very slowly, it began to creep up the gentle slope again.
She supposed it must be the treacherous ground that made it move at
such a snail's pace. It moved as if the chauffeur or his client were
looking for some one. Gradually it drew up at the curb. It was the curb
toward the Park--and from another of the little openings with iron posts
to space them off appeared the girl in gray.
She advanced promptly, as if she had been called. At the door of the car
she stood for a few minutes in conversation with the occupant. For one
of the parties at least that method of communication was apparently not
satisfactory, for he stepped out, dismissed the cab, and accompanied the
girl through the little opening into the Park. In a second or two they
were out of sight, down one of the sloping pathways.
* * * * *
During the next two months Edith had no explanation of this mystery,
nor did she seek one. After the first days of amazement and questioning
she fell back on what she took to be her paramount duty--to trust. She
argued that if he had seen her in some analogous situation, however
astounding, he would have trusted her to the uttermost; and she must do
the same by him. There were ever so many reasons, she said to herself,
that would not only account for the incident, but do him credit. The girl
might be a stenographer dismissed from his office, asking to be
reinstated; she might be a poor relation making an appeal; she might be
a wretched woman toward whom he was acting on behalf of a friend.
Such cases, and similar cases, arose frequently.
The wonder was, however, that he never spoke of it. There was that
side to it, too. It induced another order of reflection. He was so much in
the habit of relating to her, partly for her amusement, partly for his own,
all the happenings, both trivial and important, of each day, that his
silence with regard to this one, which surely must be considered
strange--strange, if no more--was noticeable. A wretched woman
toward whom he was acting on behalf of a friend! It surely couldn't,
couldn't be a wretched woman toward whom