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 II

As we entered the hall the porter handed him a letter.

“Came about an hour ago, sir,’ was the explanation.

Looking at the superscription he could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy. Though he had only seen scraps of her hand- writing he knew it ina moment. Yet he man- aged to preserve some show of dignity as he entered the lift and was carried to his flat. Yet almost before the door shut behind him the envelope was torn open.

“T am here in Staines at the Swan,” said the letter, which was written hurriedly on a sheet of plain paper. “If you can still believe in me—come. I am hoping that this will find you, but I dare not write to the cottage. I am sick at heart, Perseus, and longing for the sight of you. What I have suffered! Your miserable Andromeda.”

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