"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?"
"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can."
"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust you."
"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on--"
But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the call.
"It's for you, Mark."
Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment.
"All right; send him up."
He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me personally."
They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and stood before them, bowing low--a typical Southern darkey, his hair whitened by age.
"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke.
"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you--"
"A letter?"
"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully.
"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n houses."
"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet.
But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey.
"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it."
"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it was a pretty young lady that threw it out."
"You saw her?"
"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room.
Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark read the lines again: "My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard.