She found him in the room he called his office, where the dead
woman had lain in her coffin, and where he often sat alone thinking of
the day when the inquest was held, and when he took his first step in
the downward road, which had led him so far that now it seemed
impossible to turn back, even had he wished to do so, as he sometimes
did.
'If I had never secreted the photograph, or the book with the
handwriting, if I had shown them to Arthur, everything would have been
so different, and I should have been free,' he was thinking, when Jerry
knocked timidly at the door, rousing him from his reverie, and making
him start with a nameless tsar which was always haunting him.
'Oh, Jerry, it is you,' he said, as the little girl crossed the
threshold, and shutting the door, stood with her back against it, and
her hands behind her. 'What is it?' he asked, as he saw her hesitating.
With a quick, jerky movement of the head, which set in motion the little
rings of hair, now growing so fast, and brought his brother to his mind,
Jerry replied:
'I came to tell you that Mr. Arthur has written the letter.'
'What letter?' Frank asked, for the moment forgetting the conversation
he had held with the child in the Tramp House.
'The one I promised to bring you to show you--the one to Germany,' was
Jerry's answer.
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