Jerry Junior’s letter of regret arrived from Riva on the early mail. In the light of Constance’s effusively cordial invitation, the terse formality of his reply was little short of rude; but Constance read between the lines and was appeased. The writer, plainly, was angry, and anger was a much more becoming emotion than nonchalance. As she set out with her father toward the village jail, she was again buoyantly in command of the situation. She carried a bunch of oleanders, and the pink and white egg basket swung from her arm. Their way led past the gate of the Hotel du Lac, and Mr. Wilder, being under the impression that he was enjoying a very good joke all by himself, could not forego the temptation of stopping to inquire if Mrs. Eustace and Nannie had heard any news of the prodigal. They found the two at breakfast in the courtyard, an open letter spread before them. Nannie received them with lamentations.

“We can’t come to the villa! Here’s a letter from Jerry wanting us to start immediately for the Dolomites—did you ever know anything so exasperating?”

She passed the letter to Constance, and then as she remembered the first sentence, made a hasty attempt to draw it back. It was too late; Constance’s eyes had already pounced upon it. She read it aloud with gleeful malice.

“‘Who in thunder is Constance Wilder?’—If that’s an example of the famous Jerry Junior’s politeness, I prefer not to meet him, thank you.—It’s worse than his last insult; I shall never forgive this!” She glanced down the page and handed it back with a laugh; from her point of vantage it was naÏvely transparent. From Mr. Wilder’s point, however, the contents were inscrutable; he looked from the letter to his daughter’s serene smile, and relapsed into a puzzled silence.

“I should say on the contrary, that he doesn’t want you to start immediately for the Dolomites,” Constance observed.

“It’s a girl,” Nannie groaned. “I suspected it from the moment we got the telegram in Lucerne. Oh, why did I ever let that wretched boy get out of my sight?”

“I dare say she’s horrid,” Constance put in. “One meets such frightful Americans traveling.”

“We will go up to Riva on the afternoon boat and investigate.” It was Mrs. Eustace who spoke. There was an undertone in her voice which suggested that she was prepared to do her duty by her brother’s son, however unpleasant that duty might be.

“American girls are so grasping,” said Nannie plaintively. “It’s scarcely safe for an unattached man to go out alone.”

Mr. Wilder leaned forward and reexamined the letter.

“By the way, Miss Nannie, how did Jerry learn that you were here? His letter, I see, was mailed in Riva at ten o’clock last night.”

Nannie examined the post mark.

“I hadn’t thought of that! How could he have found out—unless that beast of a head waiter telegraphed? What does it mean?”

Mr. Wilder spread out his hands and raised his shoulders. “You’ve got me!” A gleam of illumination suddenly flashed over his face; he turned to his daughter with what was meant to be a carelessly off-hand manner. “Er—Constance, while I think of it, you didn’t discharge Tony again yesterday, did you?”

Constance opened her eyes.

“Discharge Tony? Why should I do that? He isn’t working for me.”

“You weren’t rude to him?”

“Father, am I ever rude to anyone?”

Mr. Wilder looked at the envelope again and shook his head. “There’s something mighty fishy about this whole business. When you get hold of that brother of yours again, my dear young woman, you make him tell what he’s been up to this week—and make him tell the truth.”

“Mr. Wilder!” Nannie was reproachful. “You don’t know Jerry; he’s incapable of telling anything but the truth.”

Constance tittered.

“What are you laughing at, Constance?”

“Nothing—only it’s so funny. Why don’t you advertise for him? Lost—a young man, age twenty-eight, height, five feet eleven, weight one hundred and seventy pounds, dark hair, gray eyes, slight scar over left eye brow; dressed when last seen in double breasted blue serge suit and brown russet shoes. Finder please return to Hotel du Lac and receive liberal reward.”

“He isn’t lost,” said Nannie. “We know where he is perfectly; he’s at the Hotel Sole d’ Oro in Riva, and that’s at the other end of the lake. We’re going up on the afternoon boat to join him.”

“Oh!” said Constance, meekly.

“You take my advice,” Mr. Wilder put in. “Go up to Riva if you must—it’s a pleasant trip—but leave your luggage here. See this young man in person and bring him back with you; tell him we have just as good mountains as he’ll find in the Dolomites. If by any chance you shouldn’t find him—”

“Of course, we’ll find him!” said Nannie.

Constance looked troubled.

“Don’t go, it’s quite a long trip. Write instead and give the letter to Gustavo; he’ll give it to the boat steward who will deliver it personally. Then if Jerry shouldn’t be there—”

Nannie was losing her patience.

“Shouldn’t be there? But he says he’s there.”

“Oh! yes, certainly, that ends it. Only, you know, Nannie, I don’t believe there really is any such person as Jerry Junior! I think he’s a myth.”

Gustavo had been hanging about the gate looking anxiously up the road as if he expected something to happen. His brow cleared suddenly as a boy on a bicycle appeared in the distance. The boy whirled into the court and dismounted; glancing dubiously from one to the other of the group, he finally presented his telegram to Gustavo, who passed it on to Nannie. She ripped it open and ran her eyes over the contents.

“Can anyone tell me the meaning of this? It’s Italian!” She spread it on the table while the three bent over it in puzzled wonder.

“Ceingide mai maind dunat comtu Riva stei in Valedolmo geri.”

Constance was the first to grasp the meaning; she read it twice and laughed.

“That’s not Italian; it’s English, only the operator has spelt it phonetically—I begin to believe there is a Jerry,” she added, “no one could cause such a bother who didn’t exist.” She picked up the slip and translated:

“‘Changed my mind. Do not come to Riva; stay in Valedolmo. Jerry.’”