Locke acquiesced readily and, without turning, reached back for the letter he had left lying on the desk. He was so taken up with wondering what Fargo had on his mind that his action was really little more than mechanical. His fingers closed over an envelope which he thrust into a side pocket, and the two walked briskly away. Unfortunately for Lefty the proprietor of the Hatchford was of an economical turn of mind. Having been considerably fretted by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in Ashland dropping in and using his letter paper _ad libitum_, he instituted the system of having a supply at the desk, and nowhere else. When a guest of the house wanted stationery he helped himself. A townsman could do the same, if he wished. But the mere fact of having to face the argus-eyed clerk, instead of slipping quietly to a well-furnished desk, acted as a strong deterrent. When Lefty bought his stamps the supply of envelopes had dwindled to three, two of them stuck inside the flap of the third. They lay close beside his letter on the desk, and when he reached back without looking it was the three empty envelopes, stuck together as one, that he picked up and put into his pocket. His carefully composed epistle lay, face upward, where he had left it. The clerk was busy with his books, and no one else happened to see it until Bert Elgin, as immaculately garbed as he had been the night before, on his way to the street, paused to light a cigarette. The match flared up and he had conveyed it halfway to the weed between his lips when suddenly the motion was arrested, and he stared downward with widening eyes. For an instant he could scarcely believe his senses. Before him lay a letter addressed to the very girl whose charms had so smitten him the night before, and on whom he expected to call within fifteen minutes. There was no doubt about it. “Miss Janet Harting,” written in a strong, masculine hand, stared up at him like a basilisk. Some one in this very hotel was corresponding with her――some one who did not know that she had arrived at Ashland the night before; for the address was a New England town. “Kingsbridge!” The word came hissing through his clenched teeth as he remembered suddenly that this was the name of the team on which Lefty Locke had pitched during the past summer. The forgotten match burned his fingers, and he flung it to the floor. A second later, however, he reached over to where a box of them lay, and struck one, leaning close against the desk as he did so. When he moved away, the cigarette alight, his face was still slightly flushed, but his expression was once more composed. The letter had disappeared. Once in the street, he hurried along, scarcely able to restrain his impatience. Twice he hesitated by a lighted window, but each time the place seemed too public for his purpose. At last he stopped before a little store on a corner, glanced swiftly and suspiciously around, and drew the letter from his pocket.