WHITEWASH
The thought of Philippa and her green boudoir intruded. He smiled half in amusement, half in scorn, and wondered at himself for choosing so poor a tool. What was it, unless remorseless Fate, that made him select that shallow, prating fool? Did he not know the vanity of woman well enough by this time to comprehend that she must be envied by some one before she can enjoy any possession—most of all a secret? He might have known that Philippa would talk too much, would overdo the part assigned to her, would trip and tangle him in his own net.
Truly it was Fate. And Fate had not yet done with him. He felt it again, that terrible haunting presence of danger. He shook it from him, and once more his mind went back to Victoria. He would put her right before he disappeared from her world and life.
He lit the gas, took out his pencil, and on the back of an envelope wrote:
