The second letter ran thus:



"DEAR ANNE,--Just called to London to my father. They have telegraphed
him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will write you. Trust the
bearer. Upon my soul, I'll keep my promise. Your loving husband that is
to be,

"GEOFFREY DELAMAYN."

WINDYGATES HOUSE, _Augt._ 14, 4 P. M.

"In a mortal hurry. Train starts at 4.30."



There it ended!

"Who are the pairties in the parlor? Is ane o' them 'Silvester?' and
t'other 'Delamayn?'" pondered Mr. Bishopriggs, slowly folding the letter
up again in its original form. "Hech, Sirs! what, being intairpreted,
may a' this mean?"

He mixed himself a second glass of toddy, as an aid to reflection, and
sat sipping the liquor, and twisting and turning the letter in his gouty
fingers. It was not easy to see his way to the true connection between
the lady and gentleman in the parlor and the two letters now in his own
possession. They might be themselves the writers of the letters, or they
might be only friends of the writers. Who was to decide?