She swept forward in a flash, and deftly took the letter out of Tom Harbinger's hand before he knew her intention. Flourishing it over her head, she looked them all over with eyes full of fun and mischief. "Honor to whom honor is due," she cried. "Ladies and gentlemen, be it my high privilege to deliver this to its real and only owner. Count," she went on, sweeping him a profound courtesy, "let your light shine. Behold in Count Shimbowski the too, too modest author of 'Love in a Cloud.'" There was a general outburst of amazement. The Count looked at the letter which had been thrust into his hand, and stammered something unintelligible. "_Vraiment_, Madame Neleegaze," he began, "eet ees too mooch of you--" "Oh, don't say anything," she interrupted him. "I have no other pleasure in life than doing mischief." Mrs. Croydon looked from the Count to Mrs. Neligage with an expression of mingled doubt and bewilderment. Her attitude of expecting to be received as the anonymous author vanished in an instant, and vexation began to predominate over the other emotions visible in her face. "Well," she said spitefully, "it is certainly a day of wonders; but if the letter belongs to the Count, it would be interesting to know who writes to him as Christopher Calumus." Mrs. Harbinger answered her in a tone so cold that Mrs. Croydon colored under it. "Really, Mrs. Croydon," she said, "the question is a little pointed." "Why, it is only a question about a person who doesn't exist. There isn't any such person as Christopher Calumus. I'm sure I'd like to know who writes to literary men under their assumed names." May was so pale that only the fact that everybody was looking at Mrs. Harbinger could shield her from discovery. The hostess drew herself up with a haughty lifting of the head. "If it is of so great importance to you," she said, "it is I who wrote the letter. Who else should write letters in this house?" She extended her hand to the Count as she spoke, as if to recover the harmless-looking little white missive which was causing so much commotion, but the Count did not offer to return it. Tom Harbinger stood a second as if amazement had struck him dumb. Then with the air of a puppet pronouncing words by machinery he ejaculated:-- "You wrote to the Count?"