"Devilish strange letter!" said Henley, turning the sheet over in an
effort to identify the writer. But it was useless. Dorothy Guir was
as complete a myth as the individual for whom her letter was
intended. Oddly enough, the man's last name, as well as the initial
of his first, were the same as his own; but whether the P. stood for
Peter, Paul, or Philip, Mr. Henley knew not, the only evident fact
being that the letter was not intended for himself.
Reading the mysterious communication once more, the young man smiled.
Who was Dorothy Guir? Of course she was Dorothy Guir, but what was
she like? At one moment he pictured her as a charming girl, where
curls, giggles, and blushes were strangely intermingled with
moonlight walks, rope ladders, and elopements. At the next, as some
monstrous female agitator; a leader of Anarchists and Nihilistic
organizations, loaded with insurrectionary documents for the
destruction of society. But the author was inclined to playfulness;
incompatible with such a character. He preferred the former picture,
and throwing back his head while watching the smoke from his
cigarette curl upward toward the ceiling, Mr. Paul Henley suddenly
became convulsed with laughter. He had conceived the idea of
impersonating the original Henley, the man for whom the letter had
been written. The more he considered the scheme, the more fascinating
it became. The girl, if girl she were, confessed to never having met
the man; she would therefore be the more easily deceived. But she was
expecting him daily, and should not be disappointed. Love of
adventure invested the project with an irresistible charm, and Mr.
Henley determined to undertake the journey and play the part for all
he was worth. It is true that visions of embarrassing complications
occasionally presented themselves, but were dismissed as trifles
unworthy of consideration.
It was still early in October, while Miss Guir's communication had
been dated nearly three weeks before. Had she kept her word? Had she
driven to the station every day during those weeks? Mr. Henley jumped
down from the table, exclaiming: "Yes, Miss Dorothy, I will be with you at once, or as soon as the
southern express can carry me." A moment later he added: "But I shall
glance out of the car window first, and if I don't like your looks,
or if you are not on hand, why in that event I shall simply continue
my journey. See?"
But another question presented itself. Where was Guir Station? The
lady had mentioned neither county nor county town, evidently taking
it for granted that the right Henley knew all about it, which he
doubtless did; but, since he was dead, it was awkward to consult him,
especially about a matter which was manifestly a private affair of
his own. But where was Guir? In all the vast State of Virginia, how
was he to discover an insignificant station, doubtless unknown to New
York ticket agents, and perhaps not even familiar to those living
within twenty miles of it? Paul opened the atlas at the "Old
Dominion," and threw it down again in disgust. "A map of the infernal
regions would be as useful," he declared. However important Guir
might be to the Guirs, it was clearly of no importance to the world.
But the following day the Postal Guide revealed the secret, and the
railway officials confirmed and located it. Guir was situated in a
remote part of the State, upon an obscure road, far removed from any
of the trunk lines. Mr. Henley purchased his ticket, resolved to take
the first train for this terra incognita of Virginia.