Suddenly she saw on the floor an opened letter. She picked it up, and, as
she did so, involuntarily observed the writing. Almost mechanically she
glanced at the contents. Her heart stood still. The first words scorched
her eyes.
"Eglington--Harry, dearest," it said, "you shall not go to sleep
to-night without a word from me. This will make you think of me
when . . . ."
Frozen, struck as by a mortal blow, Hylda looked at the signature. She
knew it--the cleverest, the most beautiful adventuress which the
aristocracy and society had produced. She trembled from head to foot, and
for a moment it seemed that she must fall. But she steadied herself and
walked firmly to Eglington's door. Turning the handle softly, she stepped
inside.
He did not hear her. He was leaning over a box of papers, and they
rustled loudly under his hand. He was humming to himself that song she
heard an hour ago in Il Trovatore, that song of passion and love and
tragedy. It sent a wave of fresh feeling over her. She could not go
on--could not face him, and say what she must say.
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