Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my letters to you.  They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.

And so—­good night.

Thestrawberry man.

CHAPTER III

With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texas statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at the Carlton.  There was no question about it—­the first epistle from the strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention.  All day, as she dragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself looking forward to another morning, wondering, eager.

But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom this odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver.  The news rather disappointed the daughter of Texas.  At noon she insisted on returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out, they were far from the Carlton at the time.  Her journey was rewarded.  Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.

Dear lady at the Carlton:  I am writing this at three in the morning, with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden.  That I am so late in getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday; not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening to address you.  Believe me, only the most startling, the most appalling accident could have held me up.

That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.

I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and terrible sentence.  And I could write that sentence.  A tragedy, wrapped in mystery as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen our quiet little house in Adelphi Terrace.  In their basement room the Walters family, sleepless, overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear at intervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions—­But no; I must go back to the very start of it all: 

Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson’s, in the Strand—­so early that I was practically alone in the restaurant.  The letter I was about to write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having quickly dined, I hurried back to my rooms.  I remember clearly that, as I stood in the street before our house fumbling for my keys, Big Ben on the Parliament Buildings struck the hour of seven.  The chime of the great bell rang out in our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and friendly greeting.

Gaining my study, I sat down at once to write.  Over my head I could hear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about—­attiring himself, probably, for dinner.  I was thinking, with an amused smile, how horrified he would be if he knew that the crude American below him had dined at the impossible hour of six, when suddenly I heard, in that room above me, some stranger talking in a harsh determined tone.  Then came the captain’s answering voice, calmer, more dignified.  This conversation went along for some time, growing each moment more excited.  Though I could not distinguish a word of it, I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a controversy on; and I remember feeling annoyed that any one should thus interfere with my composition of your letter, which I regarded as most important, you may be sure.