"To be sure," I said—"the Egyptologist! But the addresses?"
"I have them both," she replied. "Mrs. Neal came to the house crying, and gave me Peggy's, and begged me to find her if I could. And Mr. Ptolemy—why can I never remember the name of his hotel?"
"You have heard from him then?"
She blushed.
"Yes," she replied. "It's a famous hotel, I'm sure. The name was familiar."
"Hotel," I remarked. "Hiram must be getting on then?"
"Oh yes," she said, fumbling with her address-book. "It's the Mills Hotel."
"And a famous place," I observed, smiling. "So he lives at a Mills Hotel?"
"I forgot to tell you," she continued, "I have been so busy. He wrote me only the other day, that, after all these years—mercy! how long it has been since he fed us lemon-drops!—after all these years of tramping from publisher to publisher, footsore and weary, as he said, he had found at last a grand, good man."
"One," I inferred, "who will give his discovery to the world."