Dot didn’t know, and her husband went on to the rooms, which were palatial in size, handsomely furnished,—hot and cold water,—with intimations of suites of apartments, each connected with a private bathroom and balcony. It didn’t say so in so many words, but the idea was there and Uncle Zach saw it and disclaimed against it as false. “Hot and cold water,” he said. “That’s great; only two fassets, and them in the hall under the stairs near the dinin’ room where it’s handy for the teamsters to wash up before goin’ to dinner; and what’s them _suits_ of rooms, I’d like to know, with baths and things? It’s a fraud; only one bathroom in the house and that always out of gear and wantin’ plummin’,—and I’ve a good mind to write to the _Times_ and tell ’em so. You didn’t have nothin’ to do with this, Dotty, did you?” “No,” she replied, glancing at Mark Hilton, who sat in the office listening to the tirade and shaking with laughter. “I wrote it,” he said at last, “and it is quite as true as most of the ads you see, and those rooms in the upper hall which open together are suites, if you choose to call them so.” “_Sweets!_ Who said anything about sweets? The paper called ’em _suits_,” the excited man rejoined, while Mark explained the _sweets_ and _cu-i-sine_ which had puzzled Zacheus more than the suits. “I wanted something to attract New Yorkers,” Mark said, “and perhaps I did romance a little, but once get them here they’ll be all right.” Partially satisfied with this explanation, but wondering why he should have mentioned the haunted house, with which, in a way, he was connected, and glad Dotty had nothing to do with the fraud, as he persisted in calling the advertisement, Zach gave up his idea of writing to the _Times_, and with his wife began to look for any result the advertisement might have. It came sooner than they anticipated in a letter from Mrs. Freeman Tracy of New York, whose grandfather, Gen. Allen, had lived behind the largest brass knocker and Corinthian columns in town and was lying under the tallest monument in Ridgefield cemetery. She had seen the advertisement, she wrote, and as she had, when a child, spent a few weeks with her grandfather, she had a most delightful recollection of the town and wished to revisit it. She would like a suite of rooms with bath adjoining for herself and daughter,—a smaller room near for her maid, and her meals served in her private parlor. She had just returned from abroad, and called it a _salon_, which puzzled Mrs. Taylor a little, until enlightened by Mrs. Mason, her Boston boarder, who, with her son Craig, was content with a table in the dining room. To be served in a _salon_ was a new departure and if anything could have raised Mrs. Freeman Tracy in Mrs. Taylor’s estimation, the _salon_ would have done it. This, however, was scarcely possible. The granddaughter of General Allen was a guest to be proud of without a _salon_, and Mrs. Taylor was thrown into a state of great excitement and