He put no confidence in
what he had just read; he regarded it as a newspaper story and a great
fake; but she had bid him read it, and this fact in itself was very
disturbing. For how could she have known about it if she had not been
its author, and if she was its author, what purpose had she expected it
to serve?
He was still debating this question when he reached his own room. On the
floor, a little way from the sill, lay a letter. It had been thrust under
the door during his absence. Lifting it in some trepidation, he cast a
glance at its inscription and sank staggering into the nearest chair,
asking himself if he had the courage to open and read it. For the
handwriting, like that of the note handed him in the street, was
Georgian's, and he felt himself in a maze concerning her which made
everything in her connection seem dreamlike and unreal. It was not long,
however, before he had mastered its contents. They were strange enough,
as this transcription of them will show.
You have seen what has happened to me, but you cannot understand how I
feel. _She looks exactly like me._ It is that which makes the world
eddy about me. I cannot get used to it. It is like seeing my own
reflected image step from the mirror and walk about doing things. Two
of us, Roger, two! If you saw her you would call her Georgian.
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