And I have been down into hell, to-night and seen Archibald Enwright, of Interlaken, conniving with the devil.
I presume I should go to bed; but I know I can not sleep.

To-morrow is to be, beyond all question, a red-letter day in the matter of the captain's murder.

And once again, against my will, I am down to play a leading part.
The symphony of this great, gray, sad city is a mere hum in the distance now, for it is nearly midnight.

I shall mail this letter to you--post it, I should say, since I am in London--and then I shall wait in my dim rooms for the dawn.

And as I wait I shall be thinking not always of the captain, or his brother, or Hughes, or Limehouse and Enwright, but often--oh, very often--of you.
In my last letter I scoffed at the idea of a great war.