“The prettiest girl in New York, by Jove,” gasped Dan DeMille, clutching Bragdon by the arm.

“And look at Monty!  He’s become a new man in the last five minutes,” added Joe.  “Look at the glow in his cheeks!  By the eternal, he’s beginning to look as he did a year ago.”

A clock chimed the hour of nine.

“The man who was here yesterday is in the hall to see Mr. Brewster,” said the maid, a few minutes after the minister had uttered the words that gave Peggy a new name.  There was a moment of silence, almost of dread.

“You mean the fellow with the beard?” asked Monty, uneasily.

“Yes, sir.  He sent in this letter, begging you to read it at once.”

“Shall I send him away, Monty?” demanded Bragdon, defiantly.  “What does he mean by coming at this time?”

“I’ll read the letter first, Joe.”

Every eye was on Brewster as he tore open the envelope.  His face was expressive.  There was wonder in it, then incredulity, then joy.  He threw the letter to Bragdon, clasped Peggy in his arms spasmodically, and then, releasing her, dashed for the hall like one bereft of reason.

“It’s Nopper Harrison!” he cried, and a moment later the tall visitor was dragged into the circle.  “Nopper” was quite overcome by the heartiness of his welcome.

“You are an angel, Nopper, God bless you!” said Monty, with convincing emphasis.  “Joe, read that letter aloud and then advertise for the return of those Boston terriers!”

Bragdon’s hands trembled and his voice was not sure as he translated the scrawl, “Nopper” Harrison standing behind him for the gleeful purpose of prompting him when the writing was beyond the range of human intelligence: 

 Holland house, Sept. 23, 19—­

“Mr. Montgomery Brewster,

“My Dear Boy: 

“So you thought I had given you the slip, eh?  Didn’t think I’d show up here and do my part?  Well, I don’t blame you; I suppose I’ve acted like a damned idiot, but so long as it turns out O.K. there’s no harm done.  The wolf won’t gnaw very much of a hole in your door, I reckon.  This letter introduces my secretary, Mr. Oliver Harrison.  He came to me last June, out in Butte, with the prospectus of a claim he had staked out up in the mountains.  What he wanted was backing and he had such a good show to win out that I went into cahoots with him.  He’s got a mine up there that is dead sure to yield millions.  Seems as though he has to give you half of the yield, though.  Says you grub-staked him.  Good fellow, this Harrison.  Needed a secretary and man of affairs, so took him into my office.  You can see that he did not take me up into the mountains to murder me, as the papers say this morning.  Damned rot.  Nobody’s business but my own if I concluded to come east without telling everybody in Butte about it.