"But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial dwelling," he laughed. "I thought the hall porter——"
"Oh, but this is a registered letter," she said importantly, "from America."
All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might introduce the object of his visit. An idea struck him.
"Is your mother—" she looked blank, "er—aunt within?" he asked.
He saw the slow suspicion gathering on her face.
"I'm not a burglar," he smiled, "in spite of my alarming question, but I'm in rather a quandary. I've a friend—well, not exactly a friend—but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and——"
"Here's the postman," she interrupted.
A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king's mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door numbers, stopped before them.
"Hyatt?" he asked, glancing at the address.
"Yes," said the girl; "is that my parcel?"