And I want to be with you. It is killing me to sit here alone. If you want to meet me anywhere, send word. I'd go to hell itself to help you. You mustn't torment yourself. You mustn't imagine things. At a time like this, you must keep your head. For God's sake, remember what we are to each other, and that nothing else in the world makes any difference. I love you, my boy. I love you . . . Mary."
Then she addressed the note, and, as a safeguard against Emma, printed "Personal" in large letters on the outside of the envelope. It was too late to find any one to deliver the note and the post-office was closed. At last she put on a hat and coat and went herself to leave it under the door of the drugstore, where the druggist would be certain to deliver it in the morning. When she came home again, she lay down in the solitude of the old Victorian parlor, and before long fell asleep. It was two o'clock when she wakened, frightened, and shivering with cold.
Mr. Stimson, the druggist, found the letter in the morning, and laid it aside until he had swept out the store. Then he had breakfast and when a Pole with a cut on the side of his head came in to have it bandaged, he quite forgot the letter. It was only after ten o'clock when a boy came bringing a telegram for Philip that he remembered it suddenly. The note and the telegram were delivered together.
The telegram was brief. A man and woman believed to be Samuel Castor and Mrs. Philip Downes were found dead by suicide in a Pittsburgh boarding-house. Would Mr. Downes wire instructions, or come himself. It was signed, "H. G. Miller, Coroner."
