She found it was not a collection
of paper-backed school-books as she had at first imagined, and since the
contents of the parcel were very thoroughly scattered she glanced at them
with idle curiosity as she laid them together.
Then with a sudden violent start she picked up one of the volumes and
looked at it closely. The title stood out with arresting clearness on the
white paper jacket: _Gold of the Desert_ by _Dene Strange_. Author of
_The Valley of Dry Bones, Marionettes_, etc.
She caught her breath. Something sprang up within her--something that
clamoured grotesque and incoherent things. Her heart was beating so fast
that it seemed continuous like the dull roar of the sea. The volumes were
all alike--all copies of one book.
A sheet of paper fluttered from the one she held. She snatched at it
with a curious desperation--as though, sinking in deep waters, she
clutched at a straw.
_Author's Copies_--_With Compliments_, were the words that stood out
before her widening gaze. She remained as one transfixed, staring at
them. It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the quiet room....
It must have been many minutes later that she came to herself and found
herself huddled in a chair by the table, shivering from head to foot.
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