The day before Thanksgiving the arrival of a particularly thick letter from Colombia gave her a more than ordinarily delightful sense of anticipation.  Her brother Julius, at home for the annual festival, saw it upon the hall table three seconds before she did, and captured it.  He withdrew from his breast pocket another letter in a similar handwriting addressed to himself.  With an expression of great gravity he compared the two while Dorothy held out her hand in vain.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” he advised her.  “There is a curious likeness between these two addresses—­not to mention the envelopes—­which interests but baffles me.  The word ‘Broughton’ in both cases begins with an almost precisely identical B. The small t is crossed in almost exactly the same manner—­with a black bar of ink which indicates a lavish disposition.  The whole address upon your letter seems to me to bear a close and remarkable resemblance to the address upon mine.  Another point which should not be overlooked:  both are postmarked with a South American stamp, a Colombian stamp, with—­yes—­with the same stamp.  What can this mean?  I—­”

“When you are through with your nonsense—­” Dorothy still extended her hand for her letter.

Julius sat down upon the third step of the staircase, his countenance indicating entire absorption in the comparison before him.  He held the letters in one hand; with his other he made it clear to his sister that her nearer approach would be resisted.  “There is one point where the likeness fails,” he mused.  “My letter is an ordinary one as to thickness; it consists of two meagre sheets of rather light-weight paper.  Your letter, on the other hand, strikes me as extraordinarily bulky.  Now there—­”

“Jule, I’m busy.  Will you please—­”

“Just as I get on the trail of this thing you insist on diverting my mind,” her brother complained bitterly.  He held the two letters at arm’s length, continuing to study them while his extended hand kept his sister away.  But she now turned and walked off down the hall.

He looked after her with a sparkle in his black eyes.  “Sis,” he entreated, “don’t go.  I need your help.  Have you by any chance an inkling as to the sender of these curiously similar epistles?”

She turned.  Her eyes were sparkling, too.  She shook her head.

“I’ll tell you what,” cried the inspired Julius, “let’s read ’em together, paragraph by paragraph.  Look here, I dare you to!” he suddenly challenged her.  “Mine first.”  Stuffing his sister’s letter into his pocket he spread forth his own.  “I suppose you always read the last page first,” said he, “I’ve understood women do.  So we’ll begin at the last page.  Listen!”

She would have left him but he had walked over to her and now held her by the wrist while he began to read.  It was impossible for her eyes to resist the drawing power of that now familiar penmanship.