Harrowby waved a hopeless hand.
"Minot," he said, "it was good of you. But while you have been assisting me so kindly in that quarter, another—and a greater—blow has fallen."
"Good lord—what?" cried Minot.
"It is no fault of mine—" Harrowby began.
"On which I would have gambled my immortal soul," Minot said.
"I thought it was all over and done with—five years ago. I was young—sentimental—calcium-light and grease paint and that sort of thing hit me hard. I saw her from the stalls—fell desperately in love—stayed so for six months—wrote letters—burning letters—and now—"
"Yes—and now?"
"Now she's here. Gabrielle Rose is here. She's here—with the letters."
"Oh, for a Cotrell's Ink Eraser," Minot groaned.
"My man saw her down-stairs," went on Harrowby, mopping his damp forehead. "Fifty thousand she wants for the letters or she gives
