"
"He told me once that he had no people--that he was entirely alone,"
said George. "Still, he must have had friends, friends far more intimate
than those he made here. Even we were no more than acquaintances. He
gave us no confidence."
"I can't imagine his confiding in any one," Rose said. "But--I'm not at
all sure whether it's a coincidence or not: a letter has just come by
the afternoon post, for Mary Grant, in his handwriting. It has an
Italian stamp, and is post-marked Ventimiglia. Probably he wrote it
yesterday, at the Chateau Lontana, knowing it wouldn't get to her till
this afternoon, as the posts from Italy are so slow."
"How strange!" George exclaimed. "Strange, and very sad."
"The letter hadn't been in the house five minutes, when Dick came in
with the news of his death."
George's eyes, which appeared always to see something mysteriously
beautiful behind people's heads, fixed themselves on vacancy that did
not seem to be vacant for him. "Hannaford was there in his house alone
yesterday, writing to Miss Grant," he murmured. "How little he thought
that when she read his letter he would be in another world."
"I wonder?" Rose whispered. "It is long after five. Mary will be coming
in soon. Then, perhaps, we shall know."
XXXI
Dick Carleton had gone before Vanno brought Mary back to the Winters'
flat. Unconsciously he was enjoying his heartbreak. It was satisfactory
to prove the depth and acuteness of his own feelings, for sometimes he
had feared that he might not be capable of a great love, a love in the
"grand manner," such as swept off their feet men in the novels and plays
which women adored.
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