office, but which
was now neatly furnished as a study and bedroom. Miss Avondale smiled at
the singular combination.

"I should fancy," she said, "you would never feel as if you had quite
left the bank behind you." Yet, with her air of protection and mature
experience, she at once began to move one or two articles of furniture
into a more tasteful position, while Randolph, nevertheless a little
embarrassed at his audacity in asking this goddess into his humble
abode, hurriedly unlocked a closet, brought out the portmanteau, and
handed her the letter and photograph.

Woman-like, Miss Avondale looked at the picture first. If she
experienced any surprise, she repressed it. "It is LIKE Bobby," she said
meditatively, "but he was stouter then; and he's changed sadly since he
has been in this climate. I don't wonder you didn't recognize him. His
father may have had it taken some day when they were alone together. I
didn't know of it, though I know the photographer." She then looked at
the letter, knit her pretty brows, and with an abstracted air sat down
on the edge of Randolph's bed, crossed her little feet, and looked
puzzled. But he was unable to detect the least emotion.

"You see," she said, "the handwriting of most children who are learning
to write is very much alike, for this is the stage of development when
they 'print.' And their composition is the same: they talk only of
things that interest all children--pets, toys, and their games. This
is only ANY child's letter to ANY father. I couldn't really say it WAS
Bobby's. As to the photograph, they have an odd way in South America
of selling photographs of anybody, principally of pretty women, by the
packet, to any one who wants them. So that it does not follow that the
owner of this photograph had any personal interest in it. Now, as to
your mysterious patron himself, can you describe him?" She looked at
Randolph with a certain feline intensity.

He became embarrassed. "You know I only saw him once, under a street
lamp"--he began.

"And I have only seen Captain Dornton--if it were he--twice in three
years," she said. "But go on."

Again Randolph was unpleasantly impressed with her cold, dryly practical
manner. He had never seen his benefactor but once, but he could not
speak of him in that way.

"I think," he went on hesitatingly, "that he had dark, pleasant eyes, a
thick beard, and the look of a sailor."

"And there were no other papers in the portmanteau?" s