alieu with the
British correspondents for the French front."

I longed to get to Brian and be introduced to Sirius, but Mother Beckett
caught my arm. "Mary, dear," she cooed, "I'd like you and Mr. Curtis to
meet. Jack, this is Miss O'Malley, who would have been our Jim's wife if
he'd lived. And Mary, this is one of Jim's classmates at college; a very
good friend."

The khaki young man (American khaki) held out his hand and I put mine
into it. He stared at me--a pleasant, sympathetic, and not unadmiring
stare--peering nearsightedly through the twilight.

"So Jim found you again, after all?" he asked, in a quiet, low voice,
not utterly unlike Jim's own. Men of the same university do speak alike
all over the world.

"I--don't quite understand," I stammered. When any sudden question about
Jim is flung at me before his parents, I'm always a little scared!

"Jim and I had a bet," Mr. Curtis explained, "that he couldn't travel
_incog._, through Europe for a given length of time, in a big auto,
doing himself well everywhere, without his real name coming out. He won
the bet, but he told me--after he got over a bad dose of typhoid--that
he'd lost the only girl he'd ever loved or could love--lost her through
that da--that stupid bet. He described the girl. I guess there aren't
two of her on earth!"

"That's a mighty fine compliment, Molly!" said Father Beckett.

Just then Brian called, and I wasn't sorry, for I couldn't find the
right answer for the man who had separated Jim Beckett from me. It was
all I could do to get my breath.

"Why, of course, that's your brother! I might have known by the
likeness. Gee, but it's great about the dog! No wonder it despised the
name of 'Sherlock.' Rather a come-down from a star! There's a big story
in this. Your party will have to dine with us correspondents, and talk
things over. The crowd will be delighted. Say yes, Mrs. Beckett!"

I heard no more, for I was on my way to Brian. But by the time I'd
thanked Dierdre, been slightly snubbed by her, and successfully
presented to Sirius, it was settled that we should spend our evening at
Royalieu with the correspondents. The Beckett auto was ready, but the
dog's joy was too big for the biggest car, so Brian and I walked to the
chateau, and Jack Curtis with us, to exchange stories of _le grand chien
policier_, late "Sherlock."

Matching the new history on to the early mystery was like fitting in the
lost bits of a jigsaw puzzle--bits whic