“What’s up?” queried Betton, with a touch of impatience.

Vyse was attentively scanning the outspread letters.

“I don’t know:  can’t make out.”  His voice had a faint note of embarrassment.  “Do you remember a note signed Hester Macklin that came three or four weeks ago?  Married—­misunderstood—­Western army post—­wanted to correspond?”

Betton seemed to grope among his memories; then he assented vaguely.

“A short note,” Vyse went on:  “the whole story in half a page.  The shortness struck me so much—­and the directness—­that I wrote her:  wrote in my own name, I mean.”

“In your own name?” Betton stood amazed; then he broke into a groan.

“Good Lord, Vyse—­you’re incorrigible!”

The secretary pulled his thin moustache with a nervous laugh.  “If you mean I’m an ass, you’re right.  Look here.”  He held out an envelope stamped with the words:  “Dead Letter Office.”  “My effusion has come back to me marked ‘unknown.’  There’s no such person at the address she gave you.”

Betton seemed for an instant to share his secretary’s embarrassment; then he burst into an uproarious laugh.

“Hoax, was it?  That’s rough on you, old fellow!”

Vyse shrugged his shoulders.  “Yes; but the interesting question is—­why on earth didn’t your answer come back, too?”

“My answer?”

“The official one—­the one I wrote in your name.  If she’s unknown, what’s become of that?”

Betton stared at him with eyes wrinkled by amusement.  “Perhaps she hadn’t disappeared then.”

Vyse disregarded the conjecture.  “Look here—­I believe all these letters are a hoax,” he broke out.

Betton stared at him with a face that turned slowly red and angry.  “What are you talking about?  All what letters?”

“These I’ve spread out here:  I’ve been comparing them.  And I believe they’re all written by one man.”

Burton’s redness turned to a purple that made his ruddy moustache seem pale.  “What the devil are you driving at?” he asked.

“Well, just look at it,” Vyse persisted, still bent above the letters.  “I’ve been studying them carefully—­those that have come within the last two or three weeks—­and there’s a queer likeness in the writing of some of them.  The g’s are all like corkscrews.  And the same phrases keep recurring—­the Ann Arbor news-agent uses the same expressions as the President of the Girls’ College at Euphorbia, Maine.”

Betton laughed.  “Aren’t the critics always groaning over the shrinkage of the national vocabulary?  Of course we all use the same expressions.”

“Yes,” said Vyse obstinately.  “But how about using the same g’s?”

Betton laughed again, but Vyse continued without heeding him:  “Look here, Betton—­could Strett have written them?”

“Strett?” Betton roared. “_ Strett?_” He threw himself into his arm-chair to shake out his mirth at greater ease.