Victims of his bow and targe,
Yet who toyed with lovers' quarrels,
Envy me my braver laurels!
Lord! thy shield of shadow large
Lift above me, shout the charge!
"Well?"
"I make nothing of it," owned Lady Caroline. "It appears to be poetry of a sort—probably some translation from the Latin author."
"You note, at least, that the handwriting is a woman's?"
"H'm, yes," Lady Caroline agreed.
"Nothing else?"
"Dear, you speak in riddles."
"It is a riddle," said Diana. "Take the first letter of each line, and read them down, in order."
"O, L, I, V, E, R V, Y, E, L, L," spelled Lady Caroline, and lowered her eyeglass. "My dear, as you say, this cannot be a mere coincidence."
"Did I say that?" asked Diana.