with the other letters, so I thought I had better bring it up to you."
Lucille had by this time seized the envelope and read the superscription:
"Frank Doggie, Esq., The Grange, Chiddingford, Haslemere."
"How strange," she laughed. "Who is Mr. Frank Doggie, and why do they send his letters here?"
"Shall I return it to the postman, madame?"
"No! It would be useless. I will keep it a little while. It may be inquired for." So the maid retired, leaving the letter behind her. It seemed to fascinate Lucille; though she had the morning papers and several letters of her own to peruse, her eyes kept turning toward the buff envelope with marked curiosity, until she took it up again and examined it carefully. What right had Mr. Doggie to have the name of Frank?—that name above all others so dear to her. The fact alone seemed to make the letter her property. It had come from the Dead Letter Office. That showed that all reasonable inquiries had been made for the owner without avail. There could be no harm, then, in her reading it, for the more she regarded it, the more curious she became to learn its contents, so without further ado, she tore it open. It contained an envelope addressed to "Mrs. Right, Prospect Hotel, Harrogate," and scribbled all over, both in red and black ink, and
