Monday was a city on the alert, a city of hearts heavy
with dread. The rumors in one special edition of the papers were denied
in the next and reaffirmed in the next. Men who could look into the
future walked the streets with faces far from happy. Unrest ruled the
town. And it found its echo in the heart of the girl from Texas as she
thought of her young friend of the Agony Column "in durance vile" behind
the frowning walls of Scotland Yard.

That afternoon her father appeared, with the beaming mien of the victor,
and announced that for a stupendous sum he had bought the tickets of a
man who was to have sailed on the steamship Saronia three days hence.

"The boat train leaves at ten Thursday morning," he said. "Take your
last look at Europe and be ready."

Three days! His daughter listened with sinking heart. Could she in three
days' time learn the end of that strange mystery, know the final fate
of the man who had first addressed her so unconventionally in a public
print? Why, at the end of three days he might still be in Scotland Yard,
a prisoner! She could not leave if that were true--she simply could not.
Almost she was on the point of telling her father the story of the whole
affair, confident that she could soothe his anger and enlist his aid.
She decided to wait until the next morning; and, if no letter came
then--

But on Tuesday morning a letter did come and the beginning of it brought
pleasant news. The beginning--yes. But the end! This was the letter:

DEAR ANXIOUS LADY: Is it too much for me to assume that you have been
just that, knowing as you did that I was locked up for the murder of a
captain in the Indian Army, with the evidence all against me and hope a
very still small voice indeed?

Well, dear lady, be anxious no longer. I have just lived through the
most astounding day of all the astounding days that have been my portion
since last Thursday. And now, in the dusk, I sit again in my rooms, a
free man, and write to you in what peace and quiet I can command after
the startling adventure through which I have recently passed.

Suspicion no longer points to me; constables no longer eye me; Scotland
Yard is not even slightly interested in me. For the murderer of Captain
Fraser-Freer has been caught at last!

Sunday night I spent ingloriously in a cell in Scotland Yard. I could
not sleep. I had so much to think of--you, for example, and at intervals
how I might escape from the folds of the net that