The next morning I ran down at once to the grocer, and brought back a bottle of the only sort of ink that he had in stock, as likely to be the presumed corpus delicti. My investigation gave the wished-for result: both the letter and the transcription in the poetry book had been written with this instrumento, and I quickly began to look at things in a more cheerful light.
I began to consider "the things which were to come." She would by now have received what I had forwarded, and I did not doubt that an explanation on her part would follow. It seemed to me that most likely she would choose to answer in writing. Would she send me a letter by hand? But that might easily give rise to gossip. Perhaps, however, she might not have time to write early enough in the day to make this mode of despatch of any avail, and the post might bring the letter as quickly. This day would have to be dedicated to the exercise of patience.
How was I to wile away the dreadful time? First I thought of taking a long trip, but I shivered at the idea of letting my own thoughts have sway, and being doomed to turn and twist the same question over and over again in my mind. I preferred, therefore, to give myself up to the perusal of a German novel of the domestic type, with the purest aims, and with contents which mercifully time has blotted from my memory. I then ordered my dinner to be sent for.
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