She approached the seat by the window. Her worn
mantle, her wide sleeve, seemed to touch the deep stone sill. She was
gone like a moth. Glenfernie's eye discovered a folded paper lying in
the window. It had not been there five minutes earlier. Now it lay
before him like a sudden outgrowth from the stone. He put out a hand
and took it up. The woman was gone, the serving-man was gone. Outside
flowed the river. Alexander unfolded the paper. It was addressed to
_Senor Nobody_. It lay upon his knee, and it was Ian's hand. His lips
moved, his vision blurred. Then came steadiness and he read.
What he read was a statement, at once tense and whimsical, of the
predicament of the writer. The latter, recognizing the confusion of
thought among his captors, wrote because he must, but did not truly
expect any aid from Senor Nobody. The writing would, however, prolong
life for two days, perhaps for three. If at the end of that time
ransom were not forthcoming death would forthcome. Release would
follow ransom. But Senor Nobody truly could not be expected to take
interest! Most conceivably the stranger's lot must remain the
stranger's lot. In that case pardon for the annoyance! If,
miraculously, the bearer did find Senor Nobody--if Senor Nobody read
this letter--if strangers were not strangers to Senor Nobody--if gold
and mercy lay alike in Senor Nobody's keeping--then so and so must be
done.
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