A snap of the gate between the bamboos added a metallic note to the
tree's reedy whimperings, and the postman tramped along the short
garden path and up the veranda steps.

'Morning, Mrs Gildea . . . a heavy mail for you!'

He planked down the usual editorial packet--two or three rolls of
proofs, a collection of newspapers, a bulky parcel of private
correspondence sent on by the porter of Mrs Gildea's London flat, some
local letters and, finally, two square envelopes, with the remark, as
he turned away on his round. 'My word! Mrs Gildea, those letters seem
to have done a bit of globe-trotting on their own, don't they!'

For the envelopes were covered with directions, some in Japanese and
Chinese hieroglyphics, some in official red ink from various
postoffices, a few with the distinctive markings of British Legations
and Government Houses where the Special Correspondent should have
stayed, but did not--Only her own name showing through the
obliterations, and a final re-addressing by the Bank of Leichardt's
Land.

Mrs Gildea recognised the impulsive, untidy but characteristic
handwriting of Lady Bridget O'Hara.

'From Biddy at last!' she exclaimed, tore the flap of number one
letter, paused and laid it aside. 'Business first.'

So she went carefully through the editorial communication. Mr Gibbs was
not quite so tiresome as she had feared he would be. After him, the
packet from her London flat was inspected and its contents laid aside