That is the story of how I came to this house in Adelphi Terrace.
There is mystery in it, you must admit, my lady. Once or twice
since that uncomfortable call I have passed the captain on the
stairs; but the halls are very dark, and for that I am grateful.
I hear him often above me; in fact, I hear him as I write this.

Who was Archie? What was the idea? I wonder.

Ah, well, I have my garden, and for that I am indebted to Archie
the garrulous. It is nearly midnight now. The roar of London has
died away to a fretful murmur, and somehow across this baking
town a breeze has found its way. It whispers over the green grass,
in the ivy that climbs my wall, in the soft murky folds of my
curtains. Whispers--what?

Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my
letters to you. They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.

And so--good night.

THE STRAWBERRY MAN.



CHAPTER III

With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the
Texas statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room
at the Carlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle
from the strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All