you carry a red handkerchief in your hand as you step upon the
platform. Yes, that will do famously. I shall look for the red silk
handkerchief, while you look for the cart with gory wheels and a
calico horse. What a clever idea! But how absurd to take
precautions in such a desolate country as this. I shall know you as
the only man stopping at Guir's, and you will know me as the only
woman in sight.

Of course you will be our guest until you have proved all things to
your satisfaction, and don't forget that I shall be looking for you
each day until I see you. Meanwhile believe me

Sincerely yours,

DOROTHY GUIR.

"Devilish strange letter!" said Henley, turning the sheet over in an
effort to identify the writer. But it was useless. Dorothy Guir was
as complete a myth as the individual for whom her letter was
intended. Oddly enough, the man's last name, as well as the initial
of his first, were the same as his own; but whether the P. stood for
Peter, Paul, or Philip, Mr. Henley knew not, the only evident fact
being that the letter was _not_ intended for himself.

Reading the mysterious communication once more, the young man smiled.
Who was Dorothy Guir? Of course she was Dorothy Guir, but what was
she like? At one moment he pictured her as a charming girl, where
curls, giggles, and blushes were strangely intermingled with
moonlight walks, rope ladders, and elopements. At the next, as some
monstrous female agitator; a leader of Anarchists and Nihilistic