"Why, yes. There's no particular reason for to-night. I can wait.
But I'm going home to-morrow, to my uncle's place at Forest Gate. I'll
never be here again. The people I'm with are going away to live next
month. I'll never see you again. You don't know my name." She
considered a moment. "I'd rather not have you know it. You may write
to--" She laughed. "I said I was just a date--you may write to August
First, Forest Gate, Illinois. Say care of, care of--" Again she
laughed. "Oh, well, care of Robert Halarkenden. That will reach me."

Quite gravely the man wrote down the fantastic address. "Thank you. I
will write at once. You promised?"

"Yes." She put out her hand. "You've been very good to me. I shall
never see you again. Good-by."

"Good-by," he said, and the room was suddenly so still, so empty, so
dark that it oppressed him.


WARCHESTER,
St. Andrew's Parish House,
August 5th.

This is to redeem my promise. When we talked that afternoon, it seemed
to me that I should be able to write the words I could not say. Every
day since then I have said "Tomorrow I shall be able to tell her
clearly." The clearness has not come--that's why I have put it off.
It hasn't yet come. Sometimes--twice, I think--I have seen it all
plainly. Just for a second--in a sort of flash. And then it dropped