chimneys stand up--"

"I know," cried Celia. "The dog's collar."

"Right, Watson. And the name of the house is Stopes."

She repeated it to herself with a frown.

"What a disappointing name," she said. "Just Stopes."

"Stopes," I said. "Stopes, Stopes. If you keep on saying it, a certain
old-world charm seems to gather round it. Stopes."

"Stopes," said Celia. "It _is_ rather jolly."

We said it ten more times each, and it seemed the only possible name for
it. Stopes--of course.

"Well!" I asked.

"We must write to Mr. Barlow," said Celia decisively. "'Dear Mr. Barlow,
er--Dear Mr. Barlow--we--' Yes, it will be rather difficult. What do we
want to say exactly?"

"'Dear Mr. Barlow--May we have your house?'"

"Yes," smiled Celia, "but I'm afraid we can hardly ask for it. But we
might rent it when--when he doesn't want it any more."

"'Dear Mr. Barlow,'" I amended, "'have you any idea when you're going to