ed open-mouthed. Uncle John leaned back in his chair and
watched the girl's face.

"There's a mistake," said Patsy, quite bewildered. Then she read her
name upon the wrapper, quite plainly written, and shook her head.
"It's for me, all right. But what does it mean?"

"Why not read the letter?" suggested the Major.

So she opened the big envelope and unfolded the stiff paper and read
as follows:

"Miss Patricia Doyle, Becker's Flats, Duggan Street, New York. Dear
Miss Doyle: An esteemed client of our house, who desires to remain
unknown, has placed at your disposal the furnished apartments 'D,'
at 3708 Willing Square, for the period of three years, or as long
thereafter as you may care to retain them. Our client begs you to
consider everything the apartments contain as your own, and to use
it freely as it may please you. All rentals and rates are paid in
advance, and you are expected to take possession at once. Moreover,
our firm is commanded to serve you in any and every way you may
require, and it will be our greatest pleasure to be of use to you. The
keys to the apartments are enclosed herewith.

"Most respectfully,

"Isham, Marvin & Co."

Having read this to the end, in a weak voice and with many pauses,
Miss Patricia Doyle sat down in her chair with strange abruptness and
stared blankly at her father. The Major stared back. So did Uncle
John, when her eyes roved toward his face.

Patricia turned the keys over, and jingled them. Then she referred to
the letter again.

"Apartments D, at 3708 Willing Square. Where's that?"

The Major shook his head. So did Uncle John.

"Might look in a directory" suggested the latter, uncertainly.

"Of course," added the Major.

"But what does it all mean?" demanded Patsy, with sudden fierceness.
"Is it a joke? Isham, Marvin & Co., the great bankers! What do I know
of them, or they of me?"

"That isn't the point," observed the Major, reflectively. "Who's their
unknown and mysterious client? That's the question."

"To be sure," said Uncle John. "They're only the agents. You must have
a fairy godmother, Patsy."

She laughed at the idea, and shook her head.

"They don't exist in these days, Uncle John. But the whole thing must
be a joke, and nothing more."

"We'll discover that," asserted the Major, shrewdly scrutinizing
the letter, which he had taken from Patsy's hands. "It surely looks
genuine enough, on the face of it. I've seen the bank letter-head
before, and