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"No-o!" he said, as if nobody but a gaping idiot would expect anybody not a gaping idiot to notice a leather-curtained spring-wagon. "No-o! did you notice the brown horse that man was riding who just now passed you as you turned off the road?"

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

I thought I did until I glanced at the superscription: Miss Coralie Rothvelt.

I found but one white figure under the dim veranda eaves. "Miss Camille?"

"Now it must be three." Miss Rothvelt's writing lay in my bosom beside my despatch. At each half-hour I re-read it. At three-and-a-half I happened to glance at the original superscription. A thought flashed upon me. I stared at her name, and began to mark off its letters one by one and to arrange them in a new order. I took C from Coralie and h from Rothvelt; after them I wrote a from Coralie and r from Rothvelt, l and o from Coralie and two t's and an e from Rothvelt, and behold, Charlotte! while the remaining letters gave me Oliver.

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