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 heap to begin over again, she kept up a running commentary. "Mostly stamped at the Madison Square branch post-office. A few at Station E—that's on West Thirty-second Street, isn't it? One or two at Times Square branch, and one at Station I, One Hundred and Fifth Street. All but that one mailed in the early afternoon. Written on a Rem-Smith typewriter; a pretty old one, I should say, for the alignment is bad. All the small "o's" register below the line, and all the capital "N's" above it. And I should say that the writer is not in love with her; only pretending."

"How do you make that out?" Astro smiled curiously.

"I can feel it."

"Too literary?"

"Oh, I can't explain it. Only, I know if I got letters like this I'd throw them in the fire. 'Your gracile hands!'—bosh!"

"Yes, I noticed 'gracile.' It seems to be his pet word. Also 'jimp.' Queer love-letters—I agree with you."

"Love-letters! They're deeper than that!"

"You're right, and there is small possibility of finding the author unless we discover the motive first. There are thousands of persons who might write these letters. What I have to decide is, why should any one of them do it? It may be a mere practical joke. If that's so, it would be done by some one who can watch the effect upon her. In any case, I take it that it must be some one who knows her. What good could it do a stranger?"

"What good could it do a friend or an acquaintance?"