Lawrence stared at it, his face dazed and bewildered. Then he turned back to the first sheet, and read the letter slowly through to the very end again. It was utterly baffling and incomprehensible, yet through it all there ran a strain of perfect truth and high-minded sweetness which was unmistakable. The realization of this, coupled with a remembrance of what he had once tried to make himself believe about Shirley Rives, brought a rush of color to his cheeks, and an expression of shame into his pleasant face. "She’s true-blue to the very core," he murmured at length. "I can’t imagine what sort of luck it is that’s come to her; the whole business sounds like a tale from the ’Arabian Nights.’ But I know one thing—I was the biggest fool in all creation ever to have doubted her for a second." He glanced again at the end of the letter, and a swift smile curved his sensitive lips. "Will I come and let her tell me all about it?" he said aloud. "Will I? And soon? Well, I guess yes!" *CHAPTER XXVIII.* *THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.* Though he tried his house and one or two other places where Jock Hamersley was likely to be at this hour, Lawrence was unable to get his friend on the phone. Somehow, he was not altogether sorry. He certainly owed an apology and some sort of reparation to the men he had been forced to leave in the lurch in this abrupt, seemingly ill-mannered fashion, but he was just as well pleased to have it all put off until to-morrow. With a mind full of Shirley Rives and her extraordinary letter, he did not particularly fancy the idea of doing anything but just sit there in his room and think it all over. Having taken off his things, and made himself comfortable, he read her letter over for the third time, gaining nothing from this perusal save an intense desire to see the girl as soon as he could, and hear from her own lips the details of the amazing good fortune which had come so opportunely. Of course, it could not be stranger than his own experiences during the past three days; but the manner in which it had followed so close upon the heels of that, brought again to Barry that odd feeling of being in the grip of circumstance, the conviction that fate was molding her life as well as his, without consulting either of them even in the smallest detail. "I suppose it wouldn’t be at all the thing to call there in the morning," he thought impatiently, as he was getting into bed, long after midnight. "Hang it all! I don’t see how I’m going to restrain myself until the conventional hour."