ile of satisfaction.

"If we're all going to be honest," he remarked, "we all ought to know as
much as each other, eh? Well then, tell us about the correspondence, old
man. What do you know?"

"Miss Fraenkel ..." I began, and Bill breathed, "I knew it!"

"In the course of a casual conversation," I continued, "Miss Fraenkel
mentioned to me the fact that letters pass between them. In a way, I
suppose, she shouldn't do it. A post-mistress is in a delicate position.
And yet why not? One may say without prejudice that a certain man writes
to his wife. We might even have assumed it, since we see the postman
deliver letters with our own eyes. Miss Fraenkel, however, overstepped
the bounds of prudence when she implied something wrong. Her exact
words, as far as I can remember, were, 'It is funny he writes from New
York.'"

"Does he?" said Bill.

"So Miss Fraenkel says. So you see, your ... our unspoken thoughts were
justified, to say the least. We may recast _Item one_ and say, A grass
widow, undoubtedly Italian, with a husband in New York, twenty miles
away."

"Well, in that case it's no business of ours," said Mac, as he spread
the heavy viscid ink upon a new plate. "They may have their troubles,
but it's pretty clear they don't need our sympathy, do they?"

"No," assented Bill.

"But what becomes of our inquiry?" I protested. "My dear Mac, this does
credit to your kind heart, but since we are agreed to be honest, let us
have the fruits of our honesty. Consider that anyhow we are doing them
no harm. You are too gentle. Indeed, I think that we have been
stand-offish. Why should not Bill call and--er--leave a card?"

"Me! Call on an Italian?" The voice was almost shrill.

"A neighbourly act," I remarked. "And we may find out something."

"We're a pretty lot, us and our honesty," put in Mac, in some disgust,
rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist.

"My dear friends," I said, "I give you my word of honour that is how
modern novels are made. If you put an end to espionage the book market
would be given over entirely to such works as 'The Automobile and How to
Drive It' and 'Jane Austen and Her Circle.'"

"Then it's a very shady trade, mean and dishonourable," said Mac.

"We agreed upon that, you remember, when my novel was refused
publication," I said, laughing.

"Yes," said Bill. "But when they accepted it, you got very stuck-up and
refused to write any advertisements for a fortnight and said that
whoever