'I guess so, Mr. Porter,' the pretty American replied, with a telling glance. 'What hotel do you patronise?'
'The Murray Hill,' Charles responded.
'Oh my, ain't that odd?' Mrs. Quackenboss echoed. 'The Murray Hill! Why, that's just where we're going too, Elihu!'
The upshot of which was that Charles persuaded them, before returning to Kentucky, to diverge for a few days with us to Lake George and Lake Champlain, where he hoped to over-persuade the recalcitrant doctor.
To Lake George therefore we went, and stopped at the excellent hotel at the terminus of the railway. We spent a good deal of our time on the light little steamers that ply between that point and the road to Ticonderoga. Somehow, the mountains mirrored in the deep green water reminded me of Lucerne; and Lucerne reminded me of the little curate. For the first time since we left England a vague terror seized me. Could Elihu Quackenboss be Colonel Clay again, still dogging our steps through the opposite continent?
I could not help mentioning my suspicion to Charles—who, strange to say, pooh-poohed it. He had been paying great court to Mrs. Quackenboss that day, and was absurdly elated because the little American had rapped his knuckles with her fan and called him 'a real silly.'
Next day, however, an odd thing occurred. We
