seconds, but presently he asked
me to go on with the letter.

I took it up where I'd broken off. "Compliments to T. B., and hopes that
he will be able to let his moated grange to her till the end of
September. The Princess feels sure, from the description, that the place
will suit her. T. B. will probably know her name, but if not, he can
have any references desired. She is at the Savoy and has been ill, or
would be glad to meet T. B. in person. Her companion, Mrs. Dobell, will,
however, hold herself free to keep any appointment which may be made by
telephone. The Princess hopes that the moated grange is still free, and
feels that, if she obtains early possession, her health will soon be
restored in such beautiful surroundings. P. S.--The Princess is
particularly interested in the _twisted chimney_, and trusts there is a
history of the house."

I read fast, and when I'd finished, looked up at Terry. "If you have a
secret to tell, I'm ready with advice and sympathy," said my eyes.

"When the Princess Avalesco was Margaret Revell, I was in love with
her," Terry Burns answered them. "I adored her! She was seven or eight
years older than I, but the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Of course
she wouldn't look at me! I was about as important as a slum child to
her. In America, the Revells were like your royalties. She was a
princess, even then--without a title. To get one, she sold herself. To
think that _she_ should answer that fool advertisement of ours! Heavens!
I'm like Tantalus. I see the blessed water I'd give my life to drink,
held to my lips, only to have it snatched away!"

"Why snatched away?" I questioned.

"'Why?' Because if there _were_ a moated grange, I could meet her. Her
husband's dead. You know he was killed before Roumania'd been fighting a
week. Things are very different with me, too, these days. I'm a man--not
a boy. And I've come into more money than I ever dreamed I'd have. Not a
huge fortune like hers, but a respectable pile. Who knows what might
have happened? But there's _no_ moated grange, and so----"

"Why shouldn't there be one?" I broke in. And while he stared blankly, I
hurried on. I reminded Captain Burns of what I had said yesterday: that
there were houses of that description, more or less, in England, _real_
houses!--my own, for instance. Courtenaye Abbey was out of the question,
because it was let to my cousin Jim, and was being shown to the public
as a sort of museum; but there were