It was from the Inimitable One's private secretary. The Inimitable One did not understand her letter—he was the owner of no house in Vermont; there was doubtless some mistake. That was all. The communication was wholly enigmatic.
The letter fluttered to the floor, and Mrs. Livingstone's dazed eyes rested on the gardener in the lawn below. In a moment she was at his side.
"Peter, isn't this house owned by a very famous man?"
"Indade it is, ma'am."
"Who is he?" she demanded shortly, holding her breath until that familiar name borne by the Inimitable One passed the other's lips.
"Well, Peter, is n't he the writer? What does he do for a living?" she faltered, still mystified.
"Do? He fights, ma'am. He 's the big prize-fighter that won—" He was talking to empty air. The woman had fled.
When Polly Ann Played Santa Claus
The Great Idea and What Came of It
Margaret Brackett turned her head petulantly from side to side on the pillow. "I'm sure I don't see why this had to come to me now," she moaned.