Not until evening did his mood brighten again. Then--

"Lad of Mine," whispered Molly's gentler letter. "Lad of
Mine, _how blond your hair is_!--Even across the
chin-tickling tops of those yellow jonquils this morning, I
almost laughed to see the blond, blond shine of you.--Some
day I'm going to stroke that hair." (Yes!)

"P. S. The Little Dog came home all right."

With a gasp of dismay Stanton sat up abruptly in bed and tried to
revisualize every single, individual pedestrian who had passed his
window in the vicinity of eight o'clock that morning. "She evidently
isn't lame at all," he argued, "or little, or red-haired, or anything.
Probably her name isn't Molly, and presumably it isn't even
'Meredith.' But at least she did go by: And is my hair so very
blond?" he asked himself suddenly. Against all intention his mouth
began to prance a little at the corners.

As soon as he could possibly summon the janitor, he despatched his
third note to the Serial-Letter Co., but this one bore a distinctly
sealed inner envelope, directed, "For Molly. Personal." And the
message in it, though brief was utterly to the point. "Couldn't you
_please_ tell a fellow who you are?"

But by the conventional bed-time hour the next night he wished most
heartily that he had not been so inquisitive, for the only
entertainment that came to him at all was a jonquil-colored telegram
warning him--