Believe me, you are the best ever. I have just had a talk with the
eminent plain-clothes man who is looking for the burglar that broke into
the garden this afternoon and tried to steal you. He read to me the
description. Say, if I tried to write at this minute all of my present
emotions concerning you, I would burn holes in the paper. When it comes
to turning out fiction, Marie Corelli is not in the running. Honestly,
when Mr. Detective walked into the hotel this evening, I figured it a
toss-up whether I should ever see home and mother again.
I am only an humble steel-maker, but I am for you and I want to see you
again and tell you right to your face what I think of you. If you will
sort of happen to be in the garden at 4 p.m. to-morrow (Thursday), I
will come over the wall at the very spot I picked out to-day. I know
that this method of becoming acquainted with young women is not indorsed
by the _Ladies_' _Home Journal_ or Beatrice Fairfax, but, as nearly as I
can find out, there is no other way in which I can get into society over
here.
So far as the bloodhounds of the law are concerned, don't give them a
thought. I have met, the great Koldo, and he won't know until about next
Sunday that yesterday was Tuesday.
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