Next morning he received a letter:
“Dear Mr. Power.—My father, by some means, has heard that you and I have become friends. He has forbidden me ever to meet you again, or to write. I am disobeying him this once, because I cannot bring myself to cut adrift from a friendship dear to me without one word of explanation. All at once my bright world is becoming gray and threatening. I am miserable, and full of foreboding. But I remain, and shall ever be,
“Your sincere friend and well-wisher,
“Nancy Marten.”
That same day Howard returned from the Continent. He brought a full budget. But, in a time when the world was even grayer for Power than for Nancy, one person contrived to give him a very real and pleasurable surprise. On the twelfth day after he had received MacGonigal’s cablegram a man in the uniform of a London commissionaire brought him a big linen envelop, profusely sealed. He chanced to be out when the messenger came; so the man awaited him in the hall. He rose and saluted Power when a house-servant indicated him.
“The gentleman who sent this package from London was very particular, sir, that it should be given into your own hands,” he explained. “He also instructed me to ask for a receipt written by yourself.”
“Indeed. What is the gentleman’s name?” inquired Power, scrutinizing the envelop to see if the address would enlighten him.
“Name of MacGonigal, sir.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir, MacGonigal. A stout gentleman, sir, an American, and very dry. He made me laugh like anything. Talked about holdups, and road agents, and landslides on the railway, he did. Oh, very dry!”
MacGonigal himself cleared up the mystery: