Saturday, one o'clock
He had been weighing , measuring , remembering , until his very soul was sick with the uncertainty . His mind had been a confused web of memories , of this casual word and that look , of what she had possibly heard , had probably seen , had suspected -- known -- Now he would know . He tore open the envelope , and the dozen written lines were before his eyes . The letter was dated , a most unusual thing for Alix to do , and `` Saturday , one o'clock '' was written under the date . It was the day of her death . He read : PETER DEAR , Do n't feel too badly if I find a stupid way out . I 've been thinking for several days about it .