"What's that?" says I. "What do you suspect him of--embeazlement, maybe?" William he stoops down then and unties something that Peanut has fastened in his collar. It was a envelope. It didn't have no name on it. "This is the third one Hi found on 'im," says William. "Hi 'ave the other two in my desk. Hi don't know, sir, for whom they may be hintended, sir." "Well, who sent 'em? Is anybody going to blow up our place unlessen we put twelve thousand dollars under a stone on the front sidewalk?" "That's what Hi wish to hinquire, sir. Hi became alarmed," says William. "Hi thought Hi'd awsk you about it, sir, Mr. Wright not being at 'ome." "Why didn't you awsk Miss Wright?" says I. "Hi didn't wish to alarm her, possibly." We stood there, with this letter in our hands, looking it over. "You say you don't know where this dog's been?" says I. "Oh, no, sir; quite the contrary. I don't doubt he's often been through the--ahum!--ahum!----" "Well, how often has he been through the ahum, William?" says I. "What made you let him go? You know it's against orders." "Hi am quite hinnocent of hany hinfraction of my duties," says he. "On the contrary, Hi've watched this Peanut dog most closely, sir. Yet at times 'e is habsent. Hi'm of the belief that the notes come from the hother side of the fence, sir. But has to their haddress, and has to their contents, sir, Hi assure you Hi'm hutterly hignorant; and hit was for that reason that Hi awsked you to come and see this one. Hit's just at 'and, sir." I taken all three of them letters away from him and opened them, me being foreman; but when I begun to read I didn't tell William what they was. I only laughed out loud, hard as I could. "This is just a joke, William," says I. "Don't pay no attention to it. You see, Peanut's been over there again, digging up some petunies," says I. I went back into the room where Bonnie Bell was. I looked at her for a while. "Miss Wright," says I--the second time I ever called her that--"I've played the game with you on the square, haven't I? You thanked me for that." "Yes, Curly; yes," says she, "Why?" "Have you played in on the square with me?" "Yes, Curly, I have." "I told you not to have nothing more to do across the fence, didn't I?" "Yes. I haven't." "Is that so, Bonnie Bell Wright?" says I. "Then what's this?" I put in her hand the note--the one I'd read. It was my business to do that, the way it come to me. "Read it," says I to her. Near as I can remember, it run about like this: Why don't you come again? When shall I see you? I'm in the same place every day and I wait and wait. Please! Please! Please! It wasn't signed with no name--only just "The Man Next Door." Bonnie Bell went pale as a sheet when she read that. "Curly," says she, "I never saw it before."