_En route,
May._
Dearest! Hurrah! You have arrived and we have just left Montreal on
our way to New York. Apparently Aunt left word for our mail to be
forwarded there, for when we got to the hotel, the clerk produced
simply a bushel-basketful. Of course you know what they all
were,--acceptances for the wedding! It was the last crushing blow. We
left her alone with them in her room, heaps in her lap, piles
scattered at her feet, and our vanquished relative sitting in their
midst like Caius Marius on the ruins of Carthage. A. D., has she
definitely succumbed, I wonder?--She remarked I was a stubborn little
heathen.
A few minutes ago, just before we crossed the border, the strangest
thing happened. Two officials came on board the train and began to go
through it, car by car, asking the names of the passengers, staring
into their faces, and making hasty rummages in their luggage. When
they came near us, the Prince started violently, then sauntered over
and sat down beside me without saying a word. His face was like chalk.
I inquired what the trouble was and if they were looking for anyone in
particular. They said a foreigner had been discovered doing a very
clever bit of rascality--stealing valuable old Masters from the
museums in several large cities, and leaving such admirable imitations
in their places that the theft hadn’t been detected for some time, and
no one could tell just how he had been operating. But certain letters
had helped furnish clues, and they had reason to think the man was on
the train.
Aunt called out, “All these people are in my party. We’ve been
camping,” and off started the official. As he moved away, he said to
his assistant, “No, I don’t believe Kosloff is on this train.” It was
my turn to look at the Prince. _Kosloff was the name on his letters!_
After the officials went out, I walked off astounded. Dear A. D., what
_should_ I have done? He is even worse than we thought, isn’t he?
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