"Did you get any mail?"

"No--yes--I dunno. 'Pears like I did get somethin'. If I did, it's in the pocket of my other coat."

Going into the hall he returned with a small white package which he gave to Celestina.

"It ain't for me," said she, after she had examined the address. "It's Bob's."

"Bob's, eh?" queried the inventor. "I didn't notice, not havin' on my readin' gla.s.ses. So it's Bob's, is it?"

"Yes," answered Celestina, eyeing the neat parcel curiously.

"Whoever's sendin' you a bundle all tied up with white paper an' pink string, Bob? It looks like it was jewelry."

Quickly Willie sprang to the rescue.

"Oh, Bob's been gettin' some repairin' done for the Brewsters,"

explained he. "Delight's buckle was broke an' knowin' the best place to send it, he mailed it up to town."

"Oh," responded Celestina, glancing from one to the other with a half satisfied air.

"Let's have the thing out an' see how it looks, Bob," Willie went on.

Blushingly Robert Morton undid the box.

Yes, there amid wrappings of tissue paper, on a bed of blue cotton wool, rested the buckle of silver, its burnished surface sparkling in the light.

He took it out and inspected it carefully.

"It is all O. K.," observed he, with an attempt at indifference. "See what a fine piece of work they made of it."

The old man took from the table drawer a long leather case, drew out another pair of spectacles which he exchanged for the ones he was already wearing, and after scrutinizing the buckle and scowling at it for an interval he carried it to the window.

"What's the matter?" Bob demanded, instantly alert. "Isn't the repairing properly done?"

"'Tain't the repairin' I'm lookin' at," Willie returned slowly. "I've no quarrel with that."

Still he continued to twist and turn the disc of silver, now holding it at arm's length, now bringing it close to his eye with a puzzled intentness.

Robert Morton could stand the suspense no longer.

"What's wrong with it?" he at last burst out.

Willie did not look up but evidently he caught the note of impatience in the younger man's tone, for he drawled quizzically:

"Don't it strike you as a mite peculiar that a buckle should go to Boston with D. L. H. on it an' come home marked C. L. G.?"

"_What_!"

"That's what's on it--C. L. G. See for yourself."

"It can't be."

"Come an' have a look."

The inventor placed the trinket in Robert Morton's hand.

"C. L. G.," repeated he, as he deciphered the intertwined letters of the monogram. "You are right, sure as fate! Jove!"

"They've sent you the wrong girl," remarked Willie. "It's clear as a bell on a still night. There must have been two girls an' two buckles, an' the jeweler's mixed 'em up; you've got the other lady's."

"That's a nice mess!" Bob e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed irritably. "Why, I'd rather have given a hundred dollars than have this happen. I'll wring that man's neck!"

"Easy, youngster! Easy!" cautioned Willie. "Don't go heavin' all your cargo overboard 'till you find you're really sinkin'. 'Tain't likely Miss C. L. G. will care a row of pins for Miss D. L. H.'s buckle.

She'll be sendin' out an S. O. S. for her own an' will be ready to join you in flayin' the jeweler. Give the poor varmint time, an' he'll shift things round all right."

"But Miss Hathaway--"

"Delight's lived the best part of two weeks without that buckle, an'

she don't look none the worse for not havin' it. I saw her in the post-office only yesterday an'--"

"Did you?" cried Bob eagerly, then stopped short, flushed, and bit his lip.

"Yes, she was there," Willie returned serenely, without appearing to have noticed his guest's agitation. "Young Farwell from Cambridge--the one that has all the money--was talkin' to her, an' she had that Harvard professor who boards at the Brewsters' along too; Carlton his name is, Jasper Carlton. He's a mighty good-lookin' chap." He stole a glance at the face that glowered out of the window. "Had you chose to stroll down to the store with me like I asked you to, you might 'a'

seen her yourself."

"Oh, I--I--didn't need to see her," stammered Bob.

"Mebbe not," was the tranquil answer. "An' she didn't need to see you, neither, judgin' from the way she was talkin' an' laughin' with them other fellers. Still a young man is never the worse for chattin' with a nice girl. Now, son, if I was you, I wouldn't get stirred up over this jewelry business. We'll get a rise out of Miss C. L. G. pretty soon an' when she comes to the surface--"

"Who's that at the gate, Willie?" called Celestina from the kitchen.

"What?"

"There's somebody at the gate in a big red automobile. She's comin'

in. You go an' see what she wants, 'cause my ap.r.o.n ain't fresh.

Likely she's lost her way or else is huntin' board."

Although Willie shuffled obediently into the hall he was not in time to prevent the sonorous peal of the bell.

"Yes, he's here," they heard him say. "Of course you can speak to him.

He's just inside. Won't you step in?"

Then without further ado, and with utter disregard of Celestina's rumpled ap.r.o.n, the door opened and the little inventor ushered into the string-entangled sitting room a dainty, city-bred girl in a sport suit of white serge. She was not only pretty but she was perfectly groomed and was possessed of a fascinating vivacity and charm. Everything about her was vivid: the gloss of her brown hair, the sparkle of her eyes, her color, her smile, her immaculate clothes--all were dazzling.

She carried her splendor with an air of complete sureness as if she was accustomed to the supremacy it won for her and expected it. Yet the audacity of her pose had in it a certain fitness and was piquant rather than offensive.

The instant she crossed the threshold, Robert Morton leaped to meet her with outstretched hands.

"Cynthia Galbraith!" he cried. "How ever came you here?"

A ripple of teasing laughter came from the girl.