t the long counter with its wirework screen that fenced off the
post-office girls.

They stared curiously at the anxious-looking young woman in black and
the grey-clad, unmistakably American young man, who both at once began
to make inquiries about a certain telegram which had been handed in
there at half-past seven o'clock the evening before.

"Are you the person to whom the telegram was addressed?" one of the
girls asked almost suspiciously.

"Yes. I am Miss Smith. You see! Here is an envelope addressed to me at
the Hotel Cecil," I said, feverishly producing that envelope (it
belonged to Mr. Brace's last note to me). "Can you tell me who handed in
this message?"

"I couldn't, I'm sure," said the girl who had spoken suspiciously. "I
was off last evening before six."

"Can you tell me who was here?" I demanded, fuming at the delay.

The girls seemed blissfully unaware that this was a matter of life and
death to me.

"Miss Carfax was here, I believe," volunteered one of the other girls,
in the "parcels" division of the long counter.

I asked eagerly: "Which is Miss Carfax, please?"

"Just gone to her lunch," the two girls replied at once. "Won't be back
until two o'clock."

"Oh, dear!" I fretted. Then a third girl spoke up.

"Let's have a look at that wire, dear, will you?" she said to the
parcels girl. "I think I remember Miss Carfax taking this in. Yes.
That's right. 'Why ever don't you send my clothes, Miss Million?' I
remember us passing the remark afterwards what an uncommon name
'Million' was."

"Oh, do you! How splendid!" I said, all eagerness at once. "Then you
remember the young lady who telegraphed?"

"Yes----"

"A small, rather stumpy young lady," I pursued. "Nice-looking, with
bright grey eyes and black hair? She was dressed in a cerise evening
frock with a----"

The post-office girl shook her head behind the wire screen.

"No; that wasn't the one."

"How stupid of me; no, of course, she wouldn't be still wearing the
evening frock," I amended hastily. "But she was dark-haired, and
short----"

Again the post-office girl shook her head.

"Shouldn't call her short," she said. "Taller than me."

"Dark, though," I insisted. "Black hair."

"Oh, no," said the post-office girl decidedly. "That wasn't her. Red
hair. Distinctly red."

"Are you sure," I said, in dismay, "that you haven't made a mistake?"

"Oh, no," said the post-office girl, still more decidedly. "I've seen
her about, oft