In the middle of the night I woke with a perfectly clear idea as to the identity of the Trescotts! Prescott, Trescott! Josie, Josephine the “Empress”! And then the voice and figure!
“Why are you sitting up in bed?” inquired Alice.
“I have made a discovery,” said I. “That man at the Stock Yards meant Trescott, not Prescott.”
“I don’t understand,” said she sleepily.
“In a word,” said I, “the girl who gave you the flowers is the Empress!”
“Albert Barslow!” said Alice. “Why—”
My wife was silent for a long time.
“I knew we’d meet her,” she said at last. “It is fate.”