formula: "If she is not my aunt--" "If she is an impostor--" "If she is
a spy playing a deep game in the seclusion of Barton--" "If she is the
actress Searles is seeking--" At any rate, I would respect her wish to
play the game through; the dangers of carrying the story-book idea to
one of half a dozen possible conclusions were not inconsiderable, but I
was resolved that she should finish the tale in her own fashion.

On my way to luncheon I passed Dutch pushing a wheelbarrow containing a
huge hamper.

"It's vittles for the prisoner, sir," he remarked. "He's some feeder,
that guy, and I guess the sooner we shake 'im th' better. He kicks on
th' wine, sir. Says it's questionable vintage. When he gets tired
readin' he pokes his head through the window and kids th' boys. He says
he's goin' to remember th' place and come back when he's old. A charmin'
retreat fer supernumerary superannuates, he calls it. Them's his woids.
I'm gittin' sort o' nervous havin' 'im round. Zimmerman--he's the
clothes-presser--tried to talk Goiman to 'im this mornin' an' th' guy
pretended like his feelin's wuz hoit, an' he never knowed th' Hun's
language, he says. An' Elsie says she's prepared to swear he talked
Goiman easy enough to her."

"We'll consider his case later, Dutch. The matter is delicate, most
delicate."

If I had expected Searles and his play to be introduced into the
table-talk, I was doomed to disappointment. A dozen times I smothered an
impulse to tell Alice and Mrs. Farnsworth I had watched them in the
woodland and of Searles's long search for the ideal of his "Lady
Larkspur," but I was afraid to risk their displeasure. They enjoyed
walking in the wood, they said, and when I charged them with
selfishness in not taking me along, Alice immediately suggested a tramp
later in the afternoon.

"I'll send you away after luncheon--I have loads of letters to write,
but by four o'clock I'll be keen for the woods again."

"Letters to all my good fairies," she laughed when I went for her; "and
you mustn't look at the addresses!" She suggested that we walk to the
village as she liked to post her letters herself. We went through the
woods where I had seen her the day before.

"Constance and I were here this morning," she said when we reached the
big boulder. "Let me see; I think I'll try a little trick to test the
hand of fate. Give me those letters, please. If this falls with the
address up, I'll mail it," and she chose one and hande