In which opinion he was sustained by Kerfoot, who proved to be a ponderous sort of old-fashioned county judge, and who accentuated his decision by bringing down his cane with a bang. While all this was going on in the private office under cover of profound secrecy, another sort of consultation of a much more public character was being held in the office outside. A very bright young man--one of the clerks--held in his hand a large envelope, bearing on one end the printed address of the firm whose private office the colonel was at that moment occupying as a council chamber. It was addressed in the colonel's well-known round hand. This was not the fact, however, which excited interest; for the colonel never used any other envelopes than those of the firm. The postman, who had just taken it from his bag, wanted to deliver it at its destination. The proprietor wanted to throw it back into the box for remailing, believing it to be a Garden Spot circular, and so of no especial importance. The bright young man wanted to return it to the colonel. The bright young man prevailed, rapped at the door, and laid the letter under the colonel's nose. It bore this address:-- P. A. KLUTCHEM, ESQ., Room 21, Star Building, Wall Street, _Immediate._ New York. The colonel turned pale and broke the seal. Out dropped his challenge! "Where did you get this?" he asked, aghast. "From the carrier. It was held for postage." Had a bombshell been exploded the effect could not have been more startling. Yancey was the first man on his feet. "And the scoundrel never got it! Here, Colonel, give me the letter. I'll go through this town like a fine-tooth comb but what I'll find him. He will never escape me. My name is Yancey, suh!" The judge was more conservative. He had grave doubts as to whether a second challenge, after a delay of two days and two nights, could be sent at all. The traditions of the Carter family were a word and a blow, not a blow and a word in two days. To intrust the letter to the United States mail was a grave mistake; the colonel might have known that it would miscarry. Fitz said grimly that letters always did, without stamps. The Government was running the post-office on a business basis, not for its health. Yancey looked at Fitz as if the interruption wearied him, then, turning to the colonel, said that he was dumbfounded that a man who had been raised as Colonel Carter could have violated so plain a rule of the code. A challenge should always be delivered by the hand of the challenger's friend. It should never be mailed. The poor colonel, who since the discovery of the unstamped letter had sat in a heap buried in his coat collar,--the military button having given way,--now gave his version of the miscarriage.