Yet here was proof positive that the terror which
environed her was real. Bound up with the thunder of the gale were the
words, "Your loving sister, Madge"--evidently the sister Captain
Courtenay had spoken of--"matron of a hospital in the suburbs of
London," he said. Would he ever see her again? Or his mother? Had he
thought of them at all during this night of woe? Beneath his iron mask
did tears lurk, and dull agony, and palsied fear--surely a man could
suffer like a woman, even though he endured most nobly?
And then, not thinking in the least what she was doing, she scrutinized
the closely tied packet. She wondered idly why he treasured so many
missives. Each and every one, oddly enough, was written on differently
sized and variously colored note-paper. And it could be seen at a
glance that they were from as many different people. The outside
letter was the most clearly visible. Miss Courtenay wrote a
well-formed, flowing hand. If handwriting were a clue to character,
she was a candid, generous, open-minded woman.
But what was this? Elsie suddenly threw down the letters.
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