There won't be anything in it--nothing of importance--nothing
private--but--I--I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A--a copy
of--'
She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.
'For goodness' sake,' he said, irritably, 'don't look like that. I'm
not asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you? Look here,
Mary; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I'm the only man in
New York that's ever done anything for you. Didn't I get you your job?
Well, then, it's not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous,
or difficult, or--'
She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look
at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.
'Look here,' he said; 'I'll be square with you. You're in New York to
make money. Well, you aren't going to make it hammering a typewriter.
I'm giving you your chance. I'm going to be square with you. Let me see
that letter, and--'
His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. He
smiled, and this time the effort was obvious.
'Halloa, Joe!' he said.
Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and
wholesome and restful.
'I don't want to intrude,' he said; 'but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and
I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston
yesterday--after I got home from the office--and one to you; and
somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes.
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