There was a card at the street entrance beside
the shop, and now and then strangers brought her work.
Early in December the prisoner had brought her the manuscript of a
play to type, and from that time on he came frequently, sometimes
every day, bringing a few sheets of manuscript at a time. Sometimes he
came without any manuscript, and would sit and talk while he smoked a
cigarette. They had thought him unmarried.
On Wednesday, February twenty-eighth, Alice Murray had disappeared.
She had taken some of her clothing--not all, and had left a note. The
witness read the note aloud in a trembling voice:
"DEAR MOTHER: When you get this I shall be married to Mr. Ladley.
Don't worry. Will write again from N.Y. Lovingly,
"ALICE."
From that time until a week before, she had not heard from her
daughter. Then she had a card, mailed from Madison Square Station, New
York City. The card merely said:
"Am well and working. ALICE."
The defense was visibly shaken. They had not expected this, and I
thought even Mr.
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