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 Mexico, and an envelope addressed in a hand which Campaspe did not immediately recognize. For the moment, she passed these by to open a third envelope which she suspected of containing an advertisement, a species of printed epistle which she was seldom able to resist in the matter of precedence. Tearing open the flap, therefore, she drew out a card from Mrs. Humphry Pollanger, inviting her to attend an evening entertainment given in honour of Gareth Johns, the American novelist who, after an extended sojourn in Europe, had recently returned to his native land. A reinspection of the envelope exhibited a characteristic idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Pollanger, her use of the black and grey seven cent stamp with its portrait of McKinley, because of its dignity and sobriety and the further important fact that it harmonized with the mauve of her stationery, a certain clue to the identity of the sender which Campaspe had missed in her first glance. Opening the other letter from an as yet unidentified correspondent, she was amazed to discover that it was signed Ella Nattatorrini. Campaspe smiled as she noted the coincidence of the juxtaposed envelopes, recalling the events which had occurred in a suite at the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendeme, on an afternoon ever so long ago, when she had thoroughly learned the meaning of that stock phrase, "dissolved in tears." The Countess, indeed, improving on Niobe's original performance, had shrieked while the process was in accomplish-