By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger,
when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside
Mr. Franklin.
At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a
neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his
hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly:
"Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail
closes for London?"
"At four-thirty," said Doris.
No other person overheard Mr. Franklin's next words:
"I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It's for you. Get it at
once. It is of the utmost importance."
Doris was startled, as well she might be. But--she went straight for the
letter. It was marked: "Private and Urgent," and ran:
DEAR MISS MARTIN. I am here _vice_ Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other
phases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure
at the inn as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the
village because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect.
Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know
Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at
two o'clock at the crossroads beyond the mill.
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