The top floor at Dunstan’s was wrapped in darkness. Mosscrop knocked and kicked first at “Mr. Linkhaw’s” door to make sure that no one was in, then opened his own, and struck a light. The apartment wore still in his eyes the chill desolation of aspect which he remembered from the morning. There had been a change in the weather, and the suggestion of a fire was in the damp air. He put on his loose jacket and slippers, recalling sadly as he did so the vision he had beheld only twenty-four hours before, of that pretty little ermined footgear on the fender beside his, in front of the glowing grate. He brought out the decanter and a glass, and sighed deeply. Then all at once he caught sight of something white in the letter box. In the same instant he was tearing open a stamped envelope, addressed in a large, strange hand which yet he knew so well, and excitedly striving to gulp in the meaning of the whole written page before him, without troubling to read the lines in their sequence. Yes, it was from her, and--yes, it contained words of kindness and even of tenderness which shone brilliantly forth here and there from the context. He pulled himself together, and walking over to the light, began resolutely at the beginning. ***** “Dear Mr. Mosscrop,--I hope you were not _very_ much disappointed at finding me gone this morning, or rather, I hope you _were_ a little disappointed, but will not be so any longer when you get this explanation. I don’t know either that it can be called an explanation, for it doesn’t seem to me that I am at all able to explain even to myself, much less to you. “The fact is that you were so kind and so sweet to me, that I simply _had_ to do what I have done. I saw it all, after we had parted. Under the circumstances, and especially considering the delicate and noble manner in which you had treated me, it was the _only thing_ I could do! “I should have left a message for you in your letter-box, but there was not a scrap of paper, not even a book out of which I could tear a fly-leaf, in Mr. Linkhaw’s room, nor writing materials of any sort. I have bought this paper at the stationer’s, and am writing this note in an hotel writing-room. “The dear dressing-bag, and the other beautiful things which I owe to you, I took away with me because it would have broken my heart to leave them, and I felt sure you would be glad to have me take them. Every time I look at them, and all other times too, I shall think of the best man I ever knew or dreamed of. Something _very important_ has occurred, which may turn out to be of the _greatest possible advantage_ to me. It is very _uncertain_ as yet, and I cannot tell you about it at present, but soon I hope to be able to do so. “In the meantime, please believe in my undying gratitude. Vestalia.” *****