THE four weeks had wound away. I shall not detain the reader with a history of them. The log-book of a prosperous voyage is apt to be dull literature. They were four weeks of delightful progress toward a much-desired goal—four weeks of unmitigated happiness. The course of true love ran smooth. Time flew. Looking forward, to be sure, Arthur thought the hoped-for day would never come. But looking backward from the eve of it, he was compelled to wonder whither the time had sped.
On Thursday, the 24th of July, in the office of Assistant-district-attorney Romer, were seated Arthur, Peixada, and Mr. Romer himself. Arthur held an open letter in his hand. The letter, written in a heavy, English chirography, was signed with considerable flourish, “Reginald Graham.” Arthur had just finished reading it aloud. Said he, folding it up and putting it into his pocket, “So all trace of her is lost. We are back at the point we started from.”
Said Peixada, “Well, we shall simply be obliged to adopt the plan that I suggested in the first place—advertise.”
Assented Romer, “Yes, an advertisement is our last hope.”
“A forlorn one. She would never answer it,” croaked Arthur.
“That depends,” said Romer.
“Upon what?”
“Upon the adroitness with which the advertisement is framed.”
“Well, for instance? Give us a sample.”
“Let me think,” said Romer. After a moment’s reflection, “How would this answer?” And he applied pen to paper. Presently he submitted the paper for inspection to his companions. Its contents were as follows: