“Gosh!” exclaimed Dead-Men's-Shoes, greatly perturbed at this evidence of woman's perfidy. “An' her in the sollim presence of death, too!” “Her? Who?” demanded the Little Red Doctor, looking up from his explorations after the pin. “Dadmun,” said I, “you are too loquacious. Go out and look after Dolly Gray.” Duly impressed and oppressed by my well-chosen word, the ol'-clo' man trudged out and leaned against the railing. The Little Red Doctor extracted a small object from the shoe. It proved to be a pink rose, impaled upon a fine golden wire which might once have been a hairpin. The wire held in place a thin strip of paper. When he saw the handwriting on the paper the Little Red Doctor gave another leap. It was not as athletic and deerlike as his first, but was still a creditable performance. Then he flung the whole combination out through the open window. “Ow!” ejaculated Dead-Men's-Shoes from his place against the railing. We could hear him scuffling around after the missile, which had evidently hit him on a tender spot. His voice came clearly to us reading painfully in the dim light. “'An'-no-bird-sings-in-Arcady!'” “Dadmun,” said I, severely, “that letter is not addressed to you.” “It ain't a letter,” retorted Dead-Men's-Shoes aggrievedly. “It ain't begun like a letter oughta be. It ain't signed, like a letter oughta be. It's just that one fool line. Where's Arcady an' what's to stop the birds singin' there if they want to? Here's yer valentine.” He flipped it back through the window. We heard the creaking of the wagon springs, Dolly Gray's patient, responsive grunt and her retreating footsteps on the asphalt. I retrieved the carrier rose and turned to the Little Red Doctor. “Well?” I said. “Where _is_ Arcady, my friend?” He shook his head. “I know that song,” I continued. “How does the verse run? “And no bird sings in Arcady; The little fauns have left the hill; Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still--” “Don't!” said the Little Red Doctor hoarsely. “I used to know that song.” He lifted haggard eyes to me. “You've seen her?” “Yes.” “How did she look?” I meditated. “Like a child that doesn't understand why it isn't happy,” I said at length. I saw the Little Red Doctor's sensitive mouth quiver; but the jaw set hard and firm and ended that struggle. “I won't ask you where,” he said. “It would be no use. I couldn't tell you.” “No.” He accepted that. “Then why, in the name of Heaven,” he cried, looking at the rose, “should she--Oh, well, never mind that.” He sat thoughtfully for a time. “Dominie,” he said, “I'm going to tell you. It will do me good, I think. And then I'll forget it again.”