circumstances persistently before myself in their very worst light⁠—that I have taken to myself the comforting thought that I can make your life a happy one (as lives go) if you will trust it to me. We are not strangers, Brenda, but have known each other since we could first stand, and we have always been good friends. As I have grown from youth to manhood, my love for you has grown also in strength and sureness. I have never doubted it for a moment, though I may have hesitated as to its wisdom. Perhaps I may have caught from you a habit of setting both sides of a question upon a footing inconveniently similar, and the result has been an honest conviction that you could do better than marry me. Now that conviction has given way to another⁠—namely, that I simply cannot do without you⁠—cannot get on at all, except it be at your own express wish that I should. Circumstances have now changed. I have been fortunate in making a name, and in escaping many risks to which others have fallen victims. I can command my own price, and make my own conditions. Altogether, I am now in a position such as an honourable man could ask his wife to share. As soon as this campaign (my last) is over, I shall hurry home to you. After all, my resolution has not collapsed entirely, for this letter cannot leave here until an end of some sort come upon us. We are like rats in a trap, but the pluck of these fellows is something wonderful. I shall have much to tell you when I get back, for I am the sole historian of events inside Plevna. In the meantime, darling, I dare to call myself

Your lover,
Theodore Trist

Plevna,

Mrs. Wylie looked again at the signature in a curious, mechanical way, as if verifying it. “Theodore Trist.” Two simple words in bold abruptness without flourish, scroll, or ornament. A clear running caligraphy, strong and plain, rapid, legible, straightforward and purposeful, fresh from the fingers now still in death.

The last time the name was ever written by its possessor was at the foot of that letter to Brenda.

The girl herself stood at the window, looking over the snow-clad moorland to the gray sea. Her back was turned towards the room; her white hands hung motionless at her side. Near to her the telegrams lay on a small table, half unfolded, disclosing their short brutality of diction.

Outside, the sun shone down on the glancing sea. The waves gleamed white, and on the shingle sang their everlasting song. All the world was lovely. The seabirds whirled in midair, and shrieked fantastically for very joy. They had no thought of their own end⁠—no doubts as to the purpose of their creation⁠—no question as to the wisdom of their Creator. Only man⁠—the lord of all the earth⁠—has these!

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Suspense
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