“I’m frightfully sorry--really,” said he. But he said it with the London inflection, which plainly implies: “I’m nothing of the sort.” A painful pause. I felt that he ought to give me back the letter; but he made no move to do so. And, of course, I didn’t ask for it. “Ah--er--good night,” said I and hurried toward the door. “Good night,” he answered, and I left him standing there with Archie’s accursed letter in his hand. That is the story of how I came to this house in Adelphi Terrace. There is mystery in it, you must admit, my lady. Once or twice since that uncomfortable call I have passed the captain on the stairs; but the halls are very dark, and for that I am grateful. I hear him often above me; in fact, I hear him as I write this. Who was Archie? What was the idea? I wonder. Ah, well, I have my garden, and for that I am indebted to Archie the garrulous. It is nearly midnight now. The roar of London has died away to a fretful murmur, and somehow across this baking town a breeze has found its way. It whispers over the green grass, in the ivy that climbs my wall, in the soft murky folds of my curtains. Whispers--what? Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my letters to you. They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet. And so--good night. THE STRAWBERRY MAN. CHAPTER III With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texas statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at the Carlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle from the strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All day, as she dragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself looking forward to another morning, wondering, eager. But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom this odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The news rather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted on returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out, they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was rewarded. Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped. DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning, with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so late in getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday; not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening to address you. Believe me, only the most startling, the most appalling accident could have held me up. That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.