said Delia," suggested Don.

The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia."

"But it's _Dorothy_," insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in his
tone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain as
day."

To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but he
adjusted his glasses and looked at the book again.

"Yes--Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if you
are pleased." Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in my
book is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the lady
told me." An antique clock behind them struck "two." "Ah, it is time for
me to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend?
We are not strangers now."

Strangers indeed! Donald fairly loved the man. He did not accept the
invitation, but thanking him again and again, agreed to return in the
evening; for Monsieur Bajeau wished to know more of the strange story.

Donald walked back to the hotel lightly as though treading the air.
Everything looked bright to him. Havre, he perceived, was one of the
most delightful cities in the world. He felt like sending a cable
message home about the chain, but on second thought resolved to be
cautious. It would not do to raise hopes that might yet be disappointed.
It was just possible that after that visit to Monsieur Bajeau, his
mother, for some reason, had transferred the necklace to baby Delia's
neck. He would wait. His work was not yet finished; but he had made a
splendid beginning.

More than one tourist hurrying through Havre that day, bound for the
steamer, or for that pride of the city, the hill of Ingouville, to enjoy
the superb view, noticed the young lad's joyous face and buoyant step as
he passed by.

Donald walked briskly into the hotel, intent upon writing a cheery
letter home; but, from habit, he stopped at the desk to ask if there was
anything for him.

"Mr. D. Reed?" asked the hotel clerk, pointing to a bulky envelope half
covered with postage stamps.

"That's my name," returned the happy boy, as he hurriedly tore open one
end of the envelope. "Whew! Six!"

There were indeed six letters; and all had been forwarded from
Aix-la-Chapelle.

One was from Mr. Wogg, enclosing a bit of printed calico and a soiled
memorandum, stating that he sent herewith a piece like the gown which
the party in Liverpool had given to the young Frenchwoman fifteen years
before. He had obtained it, Mr. Wogg said,