Opening the drawer of the bed stand, he looked for her little Hollywood phone book. Lying on top was a torn page of white paper upon which several numbers had been roughly jotted down in pencil. As he picked it up in search of the*book he saw that it was a letter—or rather, part of a letter—written in a bold hand, evidently a man's. His eye couldn't help catching the first words. Having seen them, he read the rest:
"Love you? Of course I love you. How can I help it after all that's happened—after what we've been to each other? You promised that it would always be the same—and it will—it must be. I just wouldn't want to live if—"
The rest was torn there had been a dozen pages they couldn't have told more than did the fragment in his hand. Yes, they could. The man's name—the only essential bit of information which was lacking.
He stood dazed with shock. The suddenness of it—like seeing some one you loved. killed by an auto. He felt sick, too, as he slowly reread the damning words. They convicted her, all right—she could hardly laugh off! after what we've been to each other" and "you promised." Any court in the country would accept this as final proof.
So Hollywood had.got her—and he, poor fool, had trusted her completely, even though he knew that she was constantly surrounded by glamorous young males. Which one had written this? Had the affair started before he left her here, only a month ago? It couldn't have. No actress was skillful enough to play such love scenes as they two had lived together. It'had all happened within the last month—one of those quick, hot infatuations for which Hollywood is so famous.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.