So the Polly whom I helped dress at the hotel and who gave me the bag must surely be Polly of the letters but I did not place her in the dark during the air raid although I, too, just a few days before the fatal Good Friday, had been lunching at the same hostelry the very hour the Prince was arrested. Suddenly there was a complete silence in the room. I looked up. All heads were turned toward the table where a blue-eyed man of Slavic type sat facing a fashionably dressed little blonde. The excitement was intense; the scene, dramatic, as if they were holding their pose for a tableau. He still sat there, the gendarmes at his side, his expression unchanging, looking intently at the woman opposite, while she returned his gaze not a whit less steadily. Neither spoke. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and might have gotten away had she not been too quick for him, and had flung herself in front of him. He threw her off roughly but it was too late. The gendarmes slipped on the handcuffs, and the woman followed them out, her lips white with pain and her right arm hanging helplessly by her side. Then the dining room doors shut behind them and the room buzzed as if invaded by a swarm of flies. I inquired of the head waiter what it was all about, and he answered excitedly, “They have arrested a Russian Prince! The police think he is a spy--but surely there is some mistake.” Then he added, “Why, the Prince has been here on and off for years--we know him well!” “Who is the lady with him?” I inquired. “I do not know,” he answered. “They say she is an American, but she has never been at the restaurant before.” “Is this the first thing of its kind that ever happened here?” “No, once a few months ago we had an arrest--but this time the police have surely made a mistake.” Shrugging his shoulders, he continued, “Our police are sometimes stupid. We shall see the Prince here again in a few days, you may be sure.” But Boris never came back. After reading the letters and surmising who he was, I became greatly interested and tried to trace him through the interminable processes of the law. Everywhere I was baffled by blank stares, and “Pardon, madame,” or “We do not recollect this case, madame.” Perhaps he was swiftly and secretly executed. Who knows? Surely he was Polly’s suitor in the Roman days of years ago. How they renewed their friendship, I cannot surmise. Possibly the little blonde lady may be in hiding for military reasons; perhaps our last meeting was the hour of her death. But I am left a reluctant legatee of her lover’s letters and those written by her gay young self. ISABEL ANDERSON. THE LADY FOUND Dear Friend of Good Friday Night,