"Oh, Count Shimbowski," Jack said. "I beg your pardon, but may I speak with you a moment?" The Count looked after Miss Endicott, but he turned toward Neligage. "I am always at your service," he said in French. "I wanted to speak to you about that letter that my mother gave you yesterday. She made a mistake." "A mistake?" the Count echoed, noncommittally. "Yes. It is not for you." "Well?" "Will you give it to me, please?" Jack said. "But why should I give it to you? Are you Christopher Calumus?" "Perhaps," answered Jack, with a grin. "At least I can assure you that it is on the authority of the author of 'Love in a Cloud' that I ask for the letter." "But I've already refused that letter to a lady." "To a lady?" "To Miss Endicott." "Miss Endicott!" echoed Jack again, in evident astonishment. "Why should she want it?" "She said that she had the authority of the writer, as you say that you have the authority of the man it was written to." "Did you give it to her?" "No; but if I did not give it to her, how can I give it to you?" Neligage had grown more sober at the mention of Miss Endicott's name; he stood looking down, and softly beating the toe of his boot with his polo mallet. "May I ask," he said at length, raising his glance to the Count's face, "what you propose to do with the letter?" The other waved his hands in a gesture which seemed to take in all possible combinations of circumstances, while his shrug apparently expressed his inner conviction that whichever of these combinations presented itself Count Shimbowski would be equal to it. "At least," he returned, "as Mrs. Harbinger has acknowledged that she wrote it, I could not give it up without her command." Neligage laughed, and swung his mallet through the air, striking an imaginary ball with much deftness and precision. "She said she wrote it, I know; but I think that was only for a lark, like mother's part in the play. I don't believe Mrs. Harbinger wrote it. However, here she comes, and you may ask her. I'll see you again. I must have the letter." He broke into a lively whistle, and went off down the walk, as Mrs. Harbinger emerged through the window which a few moments before she had entered. "I decided that I wouldn't go down to the brook," she said. "It is too warm to walk. Besides, I wanted to speak to you." "Madame Harbeenger do to me too mooch of _honneur_," the Count protested, with his usual exuberance of gesture. "Eet ees to be me at her sarveece." She led the way back to the chairs where her group had been sitting shortly before, and took a seat which placed her back toward the only other persons on the piazza, a couple of men smoking at the other end. "Sit down, Count," she said, waving her hand at a chair. "Somebody will come, so I must say what I have to say quickly. I want that letter." The Count smiled broadly, and performed with much success the inevitable shrug.