And so at ten o'clock--after I had bidden farewell to Uncle Melchior, who wore the air of one interrupted in a long sum of compound addition-- we set forth. I knew the child had something on her mind, and waited. Once, by a ruinous fountain where a stone Triton blew patiently at a conch-shell plugged with turf, she paused and dug at the mortared joints of the basin with the point of her sunshade; and I thought the confidence was coming. But it was by the tumble-down gate at the end of the chestnut avenue that she turned and faced me. "I knew you yesterday at once," she said. "You write novels." "I wish," said I feebly, "the public were as quick at discovering me." "Somebody printed an 'interview' with you in '--'s Magazine a month or two ago." "There was not the slightest resemblance." "Please don't be silly. There was a photograph." "Ah, to be sure." "You can help me--help us all--if you will." "Is it about Fritz?" She bent her head and signed to me to open the gate. Across the high-road a stile faced us, and a little church, with an acre framed in elms and set about with trimmed yews. She led the way to the low and whitewashed porch, and pushed open the iron-studded door. As I followed, the name of Van der Knoope repeated itself on many mural tablets. Almost at the end of the south aisle she paused and lifted a finger and pointed. I read-- SACRED To the Memory of FRITZ OPDAM DE KEYSER VAN DER KNOOPE A Midshipman of the Royal Navy Who was born Oct. 21st MDCCCLXVII. And Drowned By the Capsizing of H.M.S. Viper off the North Coast of Ireland On the 17th of January MDCCCLXXXV. A youth of peculiar promise who lacked but the greater indulgence of an all-wise Providence to earn the distinction of his forefathers (of whom he was the last male representative) in his Country's service in which he laid down his young life ---------- Heu miserande puer! Si qua fata aspera rumpas Tu Marcellus eris. "Uncle Melchior had it set up. I wonder what Fritz was really like." "And your Uncle Peter still believes--?" "Oh yes. I am to marry Fritz in time. That is where you must help us. It would kill Uncle Peter if he knew. But Uncle Melchior gets puzzled whenever it comes to writing; and I am afraid of making mistakes. We've put him down in the South Pacific station at present--that will last for two years more. But we have to invent the gossip, you know. And I thought that you--who wrote stories--" "My dear young lady," I said, "let me be Fritz, and you shall have a letter duly once a month."