"There's nothing special to say since morning except that I have put a reliable man on you know whose trail. But I thought you might like to have a greeting on your way home from the concert, and the real reason is that it's such a pleasure to write to you that I can't help myself anyway. I'm waiting on the corner for Hickey (your driver) to see if there is anything for me tucked behind the seat. Of course it is scarcely possible you had a chance to write while you were home to lunch, but I shall be disappointed just the same if there is nothing there. Queer kind of post-office, isn't it? Here he is----" Hickey drew up beside him with his grin. But he might grin as hard as he liked for all Greg cared if there was a note there. His eager fingers did indeed meet with a little folded square of paper and he drew it out beaming. Hickey remarked: "I guess it takes some managing for her always to get that same seat when they go out." Greg read: "I have to be as quick and sly as a rat with my little pad of paper that I keep inside my dress and pull out when I get a few seconds alone, and whisk out of sight again when I hear anybody coming. So excuse me if I sound scrappy. We are dressing for the concert. I suppose I ought to wait until I hear from you before writing again, but I have had an idea and I can't keep it to myself. There is a young man in Managuay who used to be my dear uncle's assistant or secretary and is, I am sure, his devoted friend. He must know all the circumstances leading up to this dreadful situation. We ought to have him here. His name is Mario Estuban; his address 37 Calle Pizarro, Santiago de Managuay. Please cable him and ask if he can come at once, expenses paid. If he answers yes I'll give you the money to be forwarded by cable. He is poor. Mamma calls that it is time to go. First thing as we seat ourselves in the cab I shall slyly slide my hand behind me. I shall be so sad if there is nothing there, but I am sure there will be. "Amy." Upon reading this Greg finished his own note: "I have just read yours written as you started for the concert. It makes me happy. Why? because you feel about these notes the same as I do--only not so much. At least you say you do. Girls have the privilege of keeping their real thoughts to themselves. I wish I knew yours. I'm on my way to send the cablegram. "Greg." Hickey went on to pick up a dollar or two for the firm if he could, while Greg wended his way to the cable office. He smiled to himself thinking of the imperious little lady who so coolly commanded a man from Central America to come to her aid. At six o'clock Greg and Hickey met in the yard. Once more Greg, telling himself there could not be a letter for him,--how could she have written during the concert?--nevertheless felt for it, and lo! the little folded square was there, fatter than the others. "Dear Greg: