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I cut short these irrelevant comments on Von Eckhardt's verbal peculiarities, with which I was perfectly familiar. "How long's he here for?" "Don't know. Rather think, from what he said, that he's chucked up his post on the Zeitung " "What on earth for?" "How should I know? I tell you he's as mad as a hatter." "Wonder where I'd be likely to find him; not at the Zeitung office, if he's left.
She was a traitress certainly; perhaps a murderess. And yet I loved her, even now. I think even more bitter than my disillusion was the conviction that I must still love her, though I had lost her forever! I took a cab from the newspaper office to Von Eckhardt's address, a flat in the west end. I found him, as Medhurst had reported, considerably agitated.
"No, I knew all that before. As a matter of fact, I warned Carson against that very Society, as I'm warning you. Von Eckhardt merely told me the bare facts, including that about the bit of geranium Carson was clutching. I drew my own inference. Here, you may read his note." He tossed me a half-sheet of thin note-paper, covered on one side with Von Eckhardt's crabbed German script.
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