a false identification.
That was the single word which dropped from Earl's lips as he stood at the window of the telegraph office at Spruceville and hunted for the missing letter from his Uncle Foster. He cared nothing for the message,—that could easily be rewritten,—but the letter was highly important.
Not finding it about his person, he commenced to retrace his steps with his eyes on the ground. An hour was spent in this manner, and then he returned slowly to the office.
"I want to send a message to San Francisco, and I had a letter with me to show that it was all right," he explained.
"Will you send the message anyhow and collect at the other end? The man who is to receive the message wanted it sent that way."
The telegraph operator mused for a moment. Then he asked Earl who he was and where he lived, and finally said he guessed it would be all right. The message was again written out, and ten minutes later it was on its long journey westward, by way of Boston. The busi-