so certain that, whatever the cost, whatever the penalty, he was going to face life fully; he had to laugh at the Gregg Mowbry who, a few days ago, was dodging desire of what he might not have for the fear of the hurt to him.
He kept tight hold of the edge of the door, sucking in the clean, cool morning air; and his mind came down to practical matters. Here was Russell out of the way and, for the time at least, useless; and Mr. Hershy, of Kilkerry's and the alley "kayo," was probably to have a bad half-hour reporting to Mr. E. H. Stanway this morning. But, without Russell, was Stanway helpless; or had he another move?
A move—whether Stanway's or not, was uncertain—already was in the mail which was delivered at the Hale's door in Evanston about ten o'clock that morning. Before this hour, Mrs. Hale had gone out as she always made an early start of her day, particularly since now she had added a visit to the hospital to her routine; her letters therefore were placed on a stand in the hall and Marjorie, passing by, noticed an envelope addressed to her mother in peculiar characters evidently formed by an adult but printed by a pen. There was no clue to the sender other than the postmark of Chicago, but it was such an unusual looking letter to come to that house that Marjorie picked it up. She never had opened a letter addressed to another, but she did so now and stared at a plain sheet of paper upon which was printed by pen:
If you don't want to keep your eyes shut to what Mr. Hale has been up to, and if you care to know what ails him now, ask some neighbors about Mrs. (?) Sybil Russell, 4689 Clearedge Street.
