The slight sneer that accompanied his question restored the natural color to the young man's face, but kindled his eye ominously. “No,” he said briefly. “I met her accidentally about two months ago and as accidentally found out that she had taken an interest in one of the first things I ever wrote for your paper. She neither knew you nor me. It was then that she told me this story; she did not even then know who I was, though she had met some of my family. She was very good and has generously tried to help me.” Fletcher's eyes remained fixed upon him. “But this tells me only WHAT she is, not WHO she is.” “I am afraid you must inquire of her brother, Mr. Shipley,” said Harcourt curtly. “Shipley?” “Yes; he is traveling with her for his health, and they are going south when the rains come. They are wealthy Philadelphians, I believe, and--and she is a widow.” Fletcher picked up her note and glanced again at the signature, “Constance Ashwood.” There was a moment of silence, when he resumed in quite a different voice: “It's odd I never met them nor they me.” As he seemed to be waiting for a response, John Milton said simply: “I suppose it's because they have not been here long, and are somewhat reserved.” Mr. Fletcher laid aside the manuscript and letter, and took up his apparently suspended work. “When you see this Mrs.--Mrs. Ashwood again, you might say”-- “I shall not see her again,” interrupted John Milton hastily. Mr. Fletcher shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” he said with a peculiar smile, “I will write to her. Now, Mr. Harcourt,” he continued with a sudden business brevity, “if you please, we'll drop this affair and attend to the matter for which I just summoned you. Since yesterday an important contract for which I have been waiting is concluded, and its performance will take me East at once. I have made arrangements that you will be left in the literary charge of the 'Clarion.' It is only a fitting recompense that the paper owes to you and your father,--to whom I hope to see you presently reconciled. But we won't discuss that now! As my affairs take me back to Los Gatos within half an hour, I am sorry I cannot dispense my hospitality in person,--but you will dine and sleep here to-night. Good-by. As you go out will you please send up Mr. Jackson to me.” He nodded briefly, seemed to plunge instantly into his papers again, and John Milton was glad to withdraw.