"Oh, bosh! It's all some joke, and I'm the butt of it. She was in that house by the same authority she rode the horse."
"A woman of that sort would have no difficulty in hoodwinking the stablemen," declared Merrihew, certain that he had solved the riddle.
"And so you add forgery? Not a shred of my romance left!" Hillard spoke jestingly, but like a man who covers up a sudden twinge of pain.
"We'll know all about it in the fall. And ten to one, my theory will be the correct one."
"That's better. I have some hope now. You never won a bet in all your life."
"I know it; but this may be the one time. By the way, received a postal from Kitty this morning. From Gibraltar. Fine trip. Visited the gun-galleries and the antique furniture shops. Says no sign of prima donna as yet, but believes her to be on board. O'Mally's on the water-wagon. But Kitty aggravates me."
"What has she done now—refused you by Marconigraph?"
"No; but she promised me her address."
"Address her care Cook's, Florence, Rome, Venice. It's the popular mail-box of Europe; and if she has given them the address, they will forward."
"That helps considerably. I'm glad there's one Cook which can be relied on."