He was soon in possession of full information. In Cara’s fine bold hand, she assured him that only within the last twenty-four hours she had learnt her own and her mother’s story, and that her father was still living. She went on to say, that she was weary of exile, had a craving to see her native land, and _him_; described herself as tall and fair, very fond of outdoor sports, and games, and hoped that he would soon write to her, send for her, and allow her to know him, and remained his affectionate daughter, Caroline Blagdon. ‘P.S.--Please address Miss Glyn, Poste Restante, Mitzau. I am sending you my photograph.’ “By George!” he exclaimed when he came to the end of her epistle, “a grown-up daughter, and she writes with spirit; no milk and water about _her_!” Yes, and here was her photograph. It was many years since he had experienced such a thrill of expectation, as when he cut the string, and uncovered a cabinet-sized photograph which displayed a handsome girl, with a resolute jaw, broad shoulders, and large hands. It must be confessed, that the likeness did not do justice to the sitter’s best points--her hair, complexion, and teeth. “Not bad-looking,” was her father’s verdict. After gazing at it for a long time, studying the dress and details, he put both letter and photo into his breast coat pocket, and went off to his bath. No need to do anything in a hurry; letter-writing was the mischief, and dangerous. He would take his time,--and he did. Several anxious epistles from Les Plans remained unnoticed, and hence his daughter’s despair. It was evident that there was nothing before her, but the prospect of a dull life in an English village, and she decided to make the best of circumstances. Her father, meanwhile, had resolved to motor to Lucerne for his ‘after cure,’ but not commit himself in any way. He would first look round cautiously, and see how the land lay. Hugo Blagdon in his magnificent car arrived early in September, and put up at the National. After an excellent lunch--concluded with coffee and liqueur--he strolled forth on the Quai, and stared frowningly on the lovely scene; the mountains and hills of all shades of blue, the lake gay with traffic; finally he went into the Casino gardens and bestowed his heavy form upon a seat. The band was playing, and the place was crowded. He debated with himself the question of a bock--yes or no--the verdict was ‘no’: he had recently lost ten pounds in weight and must keep himself down. Bye and by, among the crowd, he was glad to recognise a racing acquaintance, and signalled to him to join him at his little table. As they sat, discussing jockeys, weights, and other matters, the man said: “This is a great season, I have never seen the place so full, nor so many pretty frocks, and faces. Hullo--look there!” Two ladies were crossing the gardens, both tall and both wearing summer hats, and white gowns; their air and good looks distinguished them from the crowd.