En route,
May.
Dearest! Hurrah! You have arrived and we have just left Montreal on our way to New York. Apparently Aunt left word for our mail to be forwarded there, for when we got to the hotel, the clerk produced simply a bushel-basketful. Of course you know what they all were,—acceptances for the wedding! It was the last crushing blow. We left her alone with them in her room, heaps in her lap, piles scattered at her feet, and our vanquished relative sitting in their midst like Caius Marius on the ruins of Carthage. A. D., has she definitely succumbed, I wonder?—She remarked I was a stubborn little heathen.
A few minutes ago, just before we crossed the border, the strangest thing happened. Two officials came on board the train and began to go through it, car by car, asking the names of the passengers, staring into their faces, and making hasty rummages in their luggage. When they came near us, the Prince started violently, then sauntered over and sat down beside me without saying a word. His face was like chalk.
I inquired what the trouble was and if they were looking for anyone in particular. They said a foreigner had been discovered doing a very clever bit of rascality—stealing valuable old Masters from the museums in several large cities, and leaving such admirable imitations in their places that the theft hadn’t been detected for some time, and no one could tell just how he had been operating. But certain letters had helped furnish clues, and they had reason to think the man was on the train.
Aunt called out, “All these people are in my party. We’ve been camping,” and off started the official. As he moved away, he said to his assistant, “No, I don’t believe Kosloff is on this train.” It was my turn to look at the Prince. Kosloff was the name on his letters!
After the officials went out, I walked off astounded. Dear A. D., what should I have done? He is even worse than we thought, isn’t he?
TELEGRAM TO A. D.
Care of the Department of State,