Oh, make grappling hooks of your lovely eyes if
you like! You can't drag anything out of me that doesn't exist. Herter's
message to you was verbal for safety. That was one thing set me thinking
the men hadn't met in Paris. Muller admitted going to a bank to get your
address. The people there didn't want to give it, but when he explained
that it was important, and mentioned where he was going, they saw that
he might have time to meet you at Amiens on his way home. So they told
him where you were. Now, there's no good your being cross with _me_.
What's done is done, and can't be undone. I acted for the best--_my_
best; and in my opinion for your best. Listen! Here's the message, word
for word. You'll see that a few hours' delay for me to think it over
could make no difference to any one concerned. Paul Herter, from
somewhere--but maybe not 'somewhere in France'--sends you a verbal
greeting, because it was more sure of reaching you--not coming to grief
_en route_. He reminds you that he asked for an address in case he had
something of interest to communicate. He hoped to find the grave of a
man you loved. Instead, he thinks he has found that there is no
grave--that the man is above ground and well. He isn't sure yet whether
he may be deceived by a likeness of names. But he's sure enough to say:
'Hope.' If he's right about the man, you may get further news almost any
minute by way of Switzerland or somewhere neutral. That's all.
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