"That'll have to be explained too," she sighed. "Well--let's see. Do you think of anything plausible, Wilkins?" The perfect treasure glanced at the driver, who was quite intent on his own affairs and apparently not listening--and Wilkins smiled quite complacently. "If I might make so bold as to suggest it, miss," he said, "why not say that the trunk comes from--well, the cousin of this Felice, perhaps? Has she a female cousin?" "Nobody knows it if she hasn't." "Then it might be said that this comes from her cousin--er--Aimee Fourier. That sounds rather well for a name?" "Great, Wilkins!" said Mary. "And it might further be said that this cousin, a person perhaps in the trade of making gowns and the like, since I believe that such use these trunks quite a bit--it might be said that the cousin, having no further use for this trunk, is sending it to your maid, miss." Sheer admiration shone in Mary's visible eye. "Wilkins, you're a jewel!" said its owner. "Where are we now?" "On West End Avenue, miss, within a block or two of your home." Mary disappeared. "Shut the trunk, Wilkins," her voice said softly, "We're safe!" She, who had suffered so many shocks since last night, seemed assured that at last all was well; and as a matter of fact Wilkins felt much the same about the whole affair. He gazed placidly at the sign on the corner and, closing the trunk, leaned forward to the driver. "The big limestone place over there, I think it is," said he. "Go to the side gate, old chap." Seconds only, and they rolled to a standstill at the curb. Anthony's priceless personal servant lifted out his burden and set it on the sidewalk with no effort at all. "Wait a bit and take me back," he smiled at the driver, as he started for the handsome black iron gate in the cream-colored brick wall that shut the Dalton back yard from the passing throng. There was a little electric push beside it, and Wilkins, having laid a finger on it, waited serenely. Offhand, it seemed to him, he had saved the day for Anthony Fry. A smaller, weaker man must have passed up the job of carrying out the trunk single-handed. Yes, he had saved the day and, also offhand, the saving should be worth about twenty dollars when he returned to Anthony and reported. Or possibly, considering the really horrible features of the case as Wilkins understood them, even fifty dollars. That was not too much. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more Wilkins felt that his return would be marked by the sight of a crisp yellow note from Anthony's prim, well-stocked wallet. Thirty-two of this should go into the black-and-white pin-checked suit he had been considering enviously in a Broadway window for nearly a month; ten more should go into Wilkins's savings-bank account, which was quite a tidy affair; and he thought that the other eight might as well be sent to his nephew, who was working his way through a veterinary college in Indiana.