“Well, it’s from a girl--a lady--and she thinks she’s the only person who understands ‘Abundance’--has the clue to it. Says she’s never seen a book so misrepresented by the critics--” “Ha, ha! That _is_ good!” Betton agreed with too loud a laugh. “This one’s from a lady, too--married woman. Says she’s misunderstood, and would like to correspond.” “Oh, Lord,” said Betton.--“What are you looking at?” he added sharply, as Vyse continued to bend his blinking gaze on the letters. “I was only thinking I’d never seen such short letters from women. Neither one fills the first page.” “Well, what of that?” queried Betton. Vyse reflected. “I’d like to meet a woman like that,” he said wearily; and Betton laughed again. The letters continued to pour in, and there could be no farther question of dispensing with Vyse’s services. But one morning, about three weeks later, the latter asked for a word with his employer, and Betton, on entering the library, found his secretary with half a dozen documents spread out before him. “What’s up?” queried Betton, with a touch of impatience. Vyse was attentively scanning the outspread letters. “I don’t know: can’t make out.” His voice had a faint note of embarrassment. “Do you remember a note signed _Hester Macklin_ that came three or four weeks ago? Married--misunderstood--Western army post--wanted to correspond?” Betton seemed to grope among his memories; then he assented vaguely. “A short note,” Vyse went on: “the whole story in half a page. The shortness struck me so much--and the directness--that I wrote her: wrote in my own name, I mean.” “In your own name?” Betton stood amazed; then he broke into a groan. “Good Lord, Vyse--you’re incorrigible!” The secretary pulled his thin moustache with a nervous laugh. “If you mean I’m an ass, you’re right. Look here.” He held out an envelope stamped with the words: “Dead Letter Office.” “My effusion has come back to me marked ‘unknown.’ There’s no such person at the address she gave you.” Betton seemed for an instant to share his secretary’s embarrassment; then he burst into an uproarious laugh. “Hoax, was it? That’s rough on you, old fellow!” Vyse shrugged his shoulders. “Yes; but the interesting question is--why on earth didn’t _your_ answer come back, too?” “My answer?” “The official one--the one I wrote in your name. If she’s unknown, what’s become of _that?_” Betton stared at him with eyes wrinkled by amusement. “Perhaps she hadn’t disappeared then.” Vyse disregarded the conjecture. “Look here--I believe _all_ these letters are a hoax,” he broke out. Betton stared at him with a face that turned slowly red and angry. “What are you talking about? All what letters?” “These I’ve spread out here: I’ve been comparing them. And I believe they’re all written by one man.” Burton’s redness turned to a purple that made his ruddy moustache seem pale. “What the devil are you driving at?” he asked.