“Ten days ago,” she said, at last, “a letter was mailed to you at Stockholm in Sweden. It was not intended for you. It was sent to you by mistake--a mistake realized within a few hours after it had been posted. An effort was made to recover it, but it had already started on its way. Its progress has been traced carefully. It left Brest on the steamship _Latourette_, which reached quarantine here at eight o’clock to-night. It may be delivered to you at any moment.” Caruth glanced at the clock and smiled. “I fear you are mistaken,” he objected. “Even if this letter reached the post-office to-night--which seems to me doubtful--it will not be delivered until to-morrow--unless, of course, it has a quick delivery stamp on it.” The girl nodded. “It has a quick delivery stamp on it,” she rejoined promptly; “and if I understand your post-office methods, it will be delivered very soon. The mail-bags left the ship when I did.” “You crossed on the same vessel?” “Yes. Special arrangements had been made, and I was permitted to come up to the city on the tug that brought the mail. I came straight here and have been waiting ever since. The letter has not arrived yet; therefore it must come soon.” “And when it does?” Caruth’s wonder was growing. Dimly he suspected whither the conversation was tending, and with growing interest he waited for his guest to come to the point. “When it does?” he questioned again, gently. The girl’s breath came faster. She evaded a direct answer. “You see, Mr. Caruth,” she argued, “I do not try to conceal from you the importance of this letter. It is of the very highest value to me and to my friends. To you, it is neither of value nor of importance, and, not being intended for you, it does not belong to you. It was sent to you by mistake. I have come to ask you to give it back to me unopened. Will you do it?” Caruth drew a long breath. The inborn tendency of all men of his race to do anything that a pretty woman wishes impelled him to promise. Yet the request was certainly amazing. “You ask a good deal, Miss Fitzhugh,” he temporized. “I know nothing of this letter. I have no correspondents that I know of in Sweden--nor in Europe either, for that matter. You may be right in saying that the letter is not intended for me; yet--well, I think I am entitled to ask a little further explanation. How is it possible for a letter not intended for me to be addressed to me here--for I presume it is so addressed?” Miss Fitzhugh drew herself up. “Yes, the address is correct,” she answered coldly. “I have told you it was put on by mistake by a friend of mine who sends me to reclaim the letter----” She broke off suddenly, as with startling abruptness the electric bell at the door of the apartment sounded in their ears. “There! It’s come! Go quick,” she cried. Mechanically Caruth rose and turned to the door; then hesitated. “Wilkins will bring it,” he explained.