“Well, Joe, my dear, this is a jolly surprise,” said Mr. Kent, laying aside his books. “We heard you were laid up. Some misunderstanding somewhere. We've got a friend of yours here, you see--Mr. Blair.” Blair wished he could have sunk through the floor. He would have given anything to be with the other four in the darkness of the cellar. His ears and cheeks burned painfully. “How do you do, Mr. Blair,” said Josephine, cordially. “There must be some mistake, I've never met Mr. Blair before.” “My dear Joe,” cried Kathleen, “I do think we have all gone nuts. Look here!” She took three sheets of paper from the mantelpiece. “Did you or did you not send us those telegrams?” Joe ran her eye over the messages, reading them aloud. “_Miss Kathleen Kent:_ “_My friend Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American--_” Here Joe raised her eyes and looked appraisingly at Blair, whose confusion was agonizing. “_may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all. Joe_.” “_Frederick Kent: Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish you could join me at once very urgent. Joe_.” She bent down to the terrier which was standing affectionately at her feet. “Well, Fred, old boy,” she said, patting him, “did Joe send you a telegram, heh?” “_Mrs. Philip Kent: Have found very good cook out of place am sending her to you earnestly recommend give her a trial reliable woman but eccentric name Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning. Joe_.” “My dear Kathleen,” said Joe, “you flatter me. I never sent any of those messages. Do you know any other Joes?” “I beg your pardon, Miss Kent,” said Blair. “But I must tell you. I sent two of those telegrams, and I think I can guess who sent the other. Miss Eliza Thick herself.” “You!” exclaimed Mr. Kent and both girls in the same breath. “Yes, Mr. Kent. I blush to confess it, but you and your family have been abominably hoaxed, and I can see nothing for it but to admit the truth. Painful as it is, I prefer to tell you everything.” The two girls settled themselves on the couch and Mr. Kent, bewildered, sat upright in his chair. The dog, satisfied that everything was serene, jumped on the divan and lay down between Joe and Kathleen. The unhappy Blair stood awkwardly on the hearth rug. “Last January,” he began, “a gentleman by the name of Kenneth Forbes, an undergraduate of Merton College (now studying the gas meter in your cellar), was in Blackwell's book shop, in Oxford, browsing about. Lying on a row of books in a corner of the shop he happened to see a letter, without an envelope. He picked it up and glanced at it. It had evidently been dropped there by some customer.