
All this went through my head in a sort of confusion. I think I tried to stop myself saying anything. When I found I couldn’t, I said good-by, but I’m afraid my voice gave me away.
I said good-by, and Isobel said,
“Will you come and see me, Car?”
And I said, “No, my dear, I won’t,” and I lifted my hat and walked on.
I walked as far as I could, and I didn’t take very much notice of where I was going, but after a bit I got hold of myself and started to go home. I ought to have been thinking what I was going to do next, and what I was going to say to Mrs. Bell, and what I was going to tell Fay, but I couldn’t think of anything or any one but Isobel. I was blundering along pretty fast, and I’d got within half a dozen blocks of the house, when some one pushed something into my hand. This is where the queer thing begins, and I want to put everything down very exactly. If I hadn’t been wool-gathering, I should have seen the man’s face as he came up to me. As it was, I just came out of the clouds to find a paper in my hand, and the man who had shoved it there shooting across the road diagonally with his back towards me and no more to be seen of him than a shabby suit of clothes, a greasy bowler hat, and a sheaf of handbills under his arm.
I looked down at the paper in my hand. It was the size of a handbill. But it wasn’t a handbill; it was a blank sheet of paper with what looked like a newspaper cutting pasted on to the middle of it. I should have dropped a handbill in the gutter. When you’re job-hunting, newspaper cuttings rather rivet your attention. I read this one. And here it is, word for word:
