Tearing the tough fibre of the paper with some difficulty, he drew out the folded sheet, and opened it. The handwriting was angular, legible, and painfully correct. The ink was brownish, as though it had been watered often. He read rapidly. "DEAR DOCTOR GLENNING: "This morning we learned the name of the heroic stranger who did us such unparalleled service last night upon the occasion of the burning of our stable. We wish to convey to you at the earliest moment a sense of our profound gratitude for your noble act. My daughter and I feel that we can never repay the debt under which you have placed us by your marvelous bravery. I shall call this afternoon to thank you in person, and I pray you will at all times consider our house your own. The colt is practically uninjured. It is our prayer that you have not suffered seriously. "Your obliged and obedient servant, "THOMAS DUDLEY." "Fine!" breathed Glenning. "A little stilted, perhaps, but true and sincere. He means every word. Writes like a Clay or a Webster. There's blood back of it--Kentucky bluegrass blood. And she--she did not know she was a queen of tragedy last night when she made her appeal. Who could that have been who tried to get in ahead of me? Ugh! He was a devil! When she saw him coming she looked daggers of scorn and contempt. There's something back of it all, I'll wager. Could that terrible thing dare to love her, I wonder? If he does, it's one-sided. But she's beautiful! I'd go into another burning stable tonight if she looked at me as she did then, and asked me."