"Sure. Will you wait for an answer, Miss King?".
"No, thank you, Walter."
She rode home and waited anxiously for the personal answer to her note, which came with most unclerical alacrity.
"Colette," he said, his voice tense, "if you knew what your little note meant! Did—"
"Wait until I explain, John. I must tell you about the surplice."
She repeated Amarilly's account of the peregrinations of the robe.
"Well?" he asked bewildered, "I don't see what that has to do with—"
"Everything. There was something of mine—" she turned a deep crimson—"in the pocket of that surplice."
"Yours! Why, how did it get there, Colette? Was it—"
"I am not going to tell you—not until I have it back. Oh, I could die of shame when I think who may have found it. You must get it."