To be sure, Hilda, in that enigmatic letter of hers, had implored me not
to seek her out; but I think you will admit there is one request which
no man can grant to the girl he loves--and that is the request to keep
away from her. If Hilda did not want ME, I wanted Hilda; and, being a
man, I meant to find her.
My chances of discovering her whereabouts, however, I had to confess
to myself (when it came to the point) were extremely slender. She had
vanished from my horizon, melted into space. My sole hint of a clue
consisted in the fact that the letter she sent me had been posted at
Basingstoke. Here, then, was my problem: given an envelope with the
Basingstoke postmark, to find in what part of Europe, Asia, Africa, or
America the writer of it might be discovered. It opened up a fine field
for speculation.
When I set out to face this broad puzzle, my first idea was: "I must ask
Hilda." In all circumstances of difficulty, I had grown accustomed to
submitting my doubts and surmises to her acute intelligence; and her
instinct almost always supplied the right solution. But now Hilda was
gone; it was Hilda herself I wished to track through the labyrinth of
the world.
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