"Oh, we can't go," said the doctor, "but that won't break Daisy's heart; she didn't expect we would, did you?"

"Well, I shall be sorry not to have you go, of course," said Miss Scarlett. "But if you must go, how would it do for you to slip away before Billy, comes in, so as to leave him to me? I may be able to make something of Billy, if I'm allowed to have my way with him. Must you go? So glad you called. Of course, we shall meet at our reception? Good-by!"

Madame le Claire looked amusedly down on Miss Scarlett. The bright-haired one was questioning her concerning her mystic art.

Could she see into the future?

Sometimes, when the conditions were right.

Could she read thoughts?

Let the lady judge, on the statement that two men, one with brown and the other with gray eyes, had been much in the lady's thoughts lately.

Marvelous! And could she tell what her thoughts in that connection had been? Well, never mind about that! Did she know about palmistry? And could she really put people under her influence so that they must do as she willed? How nice that must be! And would she and the professor come up to the Pumphreys' reception and arrange to give a program of occult feats for the entertainment of the guests? Surely; they should be very glad; that was a part of their profession.

During these negotiations Mr. Cox waited outside, and Florian Amidon, meeting him in the lobby and being accosted as 'Gene, stopped for a talk, fearing to slight some dear but unknown friend. The word "'Gene" was becoming a sort of round shot across the bows in his Bellevale cruises. The parley (concerning wells and tanks) he cut as short as possible, and, passing on, started up the stairway.

Half-way up there was a broad landing, and as Florian turned on this, he saw at the head of the flight the blast-furnace of hair, the striking hat and the pleasantly rounded figure of Clara's visitor—a person to him quite unknown. Fate, however, seemed to have in store for him an extraordinary introduction, for instantly he was aware of the descent upon him of a fiery comet of femininity. The lady seemed to be falling down stairs. With a little cry she descended, partly flying, partly falling, partly sliding flown the baluster—a whirl of superheated hair, swirling skirts, and wide, appealing eyes of delf blue. Amidon caught her in his arms, and sought to place her gently on her feet: but in the pure chance and accident of the encounter, her arms had fallen about his neck, and she hung upon him in something like a hug.

"Oh! oh!" said she, "the idea of your flying to me like that! But it's nice of you!"

Amidon bowed distantly, and in evident embarrassment. Miss Scarlett drew herself up, as at an undeserved rebuke.

"I am very glad," said he, "to have been of any service, even at the risk of seeming familiarity, in saving you from a fall. I hope you will pardon me, a stranger, for so far——"

"A stranger!" she ejaculated; "oh, heavens! Leave me, 'Gene! Go away!"

The "Go away" was pronounced as Mr. Cox appeared at the foot of the stairs. Amidon passed on, now fully aware of having committed a faux pas. Looking back, he saw Miss Scarlett leaning against a newel-post as if in agitation; saw Mr. Cox come up and lead her down; and as she disappeared, leaning weakly on her escort's arm, the mop of rumpled hair faded from his sight like a receding fire-ship. Who could she be? Suddenly Alvord's whispered caution flashed on his mind, and he knew that he had encountered, embraced and repudiated the Strawberry Blonde. He paused for a moment to think over the situation—considerations of policy were coming more and more to appeal to him as guides, and he found himself feeling vulpine and furtive. But here, thought he, would it not really have been best to temporize with the situation, and not to have terminated all relations with Miss Scarlett in this public way? Would it not——

Then rolled over his heart the consciousness of the manifold glories of his Elizabeth's womanhood. Temporize with another woman? The very thought repelled him. He involuntarily brushed his coat where it had supported and encircled Miss Scarlett. He felt a sense of unworthiness in having, even of necessity and for a proper purpose, embraced this other girl. Looking up, he saw Judge Blodgett regarding him like a portly accusing angel from the head of the stairway. He made a feint at assisting Amidon in brushing his coat.

"Those red ones," said he, "are the very devil for showing on black! I'd carry a whisk-broom, if I were you!"



"Blodgett," said Amidon, "I don't care to be chaffed about an accident of that sort."

"Oh, certainly not!" said the judge. "But pick off the ringlets all the same. And say, Florian, of course I don't count, but there was another fellow at the foot of the stairs, the junior in the firm of Fuller and Cox, my fellow practitioners; and in accidents of this sort one sometimes does as much damage as a regular cloud of witnesses. And remember, if you won't use the letter of withdrawal, you're to be a good deal in the public eye, now."

Amidon moved on in disgust. And the poor faithful fellow, that his spiritual tone might be restored, sat down and read once more his Bible—the letter superscribed in the large, scrawly hand, "To be Read En Route."



XXI

SOME ALTERNATIONS IN THE CURRENT

One made himself a name for skill to trace To its last hiding-place, Each secret Mother Earth engaged to save, Of jungle, sea or cave. No path so devious but he mastered it; And, bit by bit, From off the face of mystery, he tore The veil she wore; Then, turning inward all his skill in seeing, To solve the knot of Being, In the deep crypts of Self fordone he lay, Quite cast away. —Adventures in Egoism.

Every morning, now, a box of flowers went up to Elizabeth, at the house with the white columns; and every evening Mr. Amidon bravely followed. The terror he felt of women was overpowered by the greater terror of losing this woman, and the fortitude and resolution he possessed in all other fields of action were returning to him. His violets and carnations she always wore for him, and all the roses except the red ones, which she put in vases and kept near her, but did not wear. She was ineffably kind and sweet, in a high and pure and far-off way fit for Olympus, but all the intimate little coquetries and tricks of charm with which she had at first received and disconcerted him were gone. She talked to him in that low voice of hers, but oftener she sat silent, and seemed to desire him to talk to her.

Since that first night, he could not bring himself to act a part, further than to assume the name and place of Eugene Brassfield. He stood afar off, looked at his divinity and worshiped. He read to her her favorite books, and ventured somewhat, out of his exceptional knowledge, to expound them—whereat she looked away and listened with something of the astonishment with which she had received his disquisitions on poetry and art on that first unlucky evening. For the most part, however, he, too, was inclined to silences, in which he looked at Elizabeth in the happiness of a lover's wretchedness. The love she had given to Brassfield seemed to him based on the deceitful pretensions of that wretch, and in any case it was not his, and he felt repelled from accepting it. He yearned to show her the soul of Florian Amidon, purified, adorned, and dedicated to her.

Once or twice she had hinted at something fateful which she wanted to say to him; but he had begged her to wait. After a few days of this slavish devotion of his, she seemed less aloof, not quite so much the unattainable goddess.

She gave him her hand, as usual, one evening at parting.

"I shall not expect to see you to-morrow," said she, "until we meet at the Pumphreys' reception. Until then, good-by."

"I thought," said he, "that if you would permit, I should like to call in the afternoon—say at three or four. May I?"

He looked so pleadingly at her, holding the little hand in both of his, that it is no wonder her color rose. It was like the worshipful inception of a new courtship.

"I shall be invisible," said she, "all day—so you must wait. You haven't any time to bother with me, anyhow. Haven't you your platform to complete? A public man must attend to public matters first, and, anyhow, I shall be denied to all my friends, and you must wait with the rest!"

"It is hard to wait," he answered, "when you are so near."

"I shall try to make amends," said she, "by endeavoring to be as beautiful as—as you used to describe me—at the reception. Good night! Good night!"

He once more violated the Brassfield traditions; he simply raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. To do more, he felt, would spoil all. She went in, more nearly happy than at any time since his return, but sorely puzzled. "I shall never understand him," she thought.

Mrs. Major Pumphrey, standing in line with Miss Scarlett and Mrs. Pumphrey's sister from Wisconsin; a procession of people coming in by twos and threes, and steered by attendants into rooms for doffing wraps; a chain of de-wrapped human beings circulating past the receiving line and listening to Mrs. Pumphrey's assurances that she was delighted to welcome them that she might have the pleasure of introducing them to her sister—and of course they knew Miss Scarlett; an Italian harper who played ceaselessly among palms; a punch-bowl presided over by Flossie Smith and Mrs. Alvord; a melange of black coats, pretty frocks and white arms and shoulders; a glare of lights; a hum like a hive's—in short, a reception. Such was the function to which Florian made his way, waiting until he could arrive concomitantly with the Waldron carriage so that he might hand the ladies therefrom, and receive from his divinity a little, uncertain pressure of the hand. Then came his respects to Mrs. Pumphrey. Amidon started as he recognized in the bright-haired second person in line his fairy of the balustrade.

"So delighted to see you here, Mr. Brassfield!" said Mrs. Pumphrey. "It gives me the opportunity of presenting you to—why, Daisy, where's your auntie gone? She was here just now!"

"She was called away for a few moments," said Miss Scarlett. "Yes, I believe Mr. Brassfield and I have met"—this with an icy bow—"and please, Mr. Cox, don't go, until I have told you the end of the story!" And she went on vivaciously chatting to Billy Cox, who had moored himself as close to her as the tide of guests sweeping by her would permit. Which current swept Mr. Amidon onward as he was in the act of assuring his hostess of his sense of loss in her sister's absence—until an eddy left him in a quiet corner, where he found absorbing occupation in trying to imagine again as vividly as possible that pressure of the hand. Was it meant as an evidence of affection?—or did her foot slip, so that she clung to his hand to prevent a fall? This question seemed of the most transcendent importance to him, and he debated it mentally all the evening, as he talked the set conversation of such an occasion. He knew no one; but every one knew him; yet he had no difficulty in getting on, because there was no sense in any of the conversation. He could answer all the remarks regarding his new role of political leader without committing himself to anything serious. Bright eyes flashed meaning and soulful glances into his, as sweet lips said things which he could answer quite as well as if the context of the conversation had been as familiar to him as it was supposed to be. Platitudes, generalities, inanities; and inanities, platitudes and generalities in reply. Amidon looked the part of Brassfield perfectly, and on occasions of this sort, to look the part is quite enough.

He found Elizabeth again, surrounded by a circle of admirers—men and women—an oasis of intelligence, it seemed to him as he listened, in a desert of twaddle. She smiled at him with her eyes, as he looked at her through the press, and just as he had won to a place by her side, the tide was sent flooding into a large room where, it was announced, Professor Blatherwick and Madame le Claire were doing feats of occultism.

"Laties ant shentlemen,"—it was the professor who spoke, "you are at liperty, of gourse, to adopt any t'eory vich seems to you goot to eggsblain dese phenomena. Madame le Claire offers none. Ven she hass broduced te phenomena, she iss—she iss all in! If dey seem to you to be de vork of tisempodied spirits, fery well—goot! Somedimes it seems so to her. If you rekard letchertemain as a sufficient vorking hypot'esis, vy, letchertemain goes, and upon dat hypot'esis ve vill gontinue to vork de miracles ant de public. Id iss kvite de same to Madame le Claire. It iss only fair to say, howefer, dat she hass nefer yet detected herself in any fraut. Bud she offers no eggsblanation; she chust gifes dese tests for your gonsiteration."

A ripple of laughter and a buzz of interested comment ran through the room.

"But how was it possible for her to get her hands loose?" said one.

"I assure you," said Mrs. Meyer, she of the Parsifal impressions, and the wife of the Hebrew leader of the Gentile mob who went "down the line" for McCorkle the night before the caucuses, "I assure you that what she told me was unknown not only to every one else, but to me also; but it turned out true. It's uncanny!"

"It's humbug," said the bass voice of Doctor Brown, "and until you show me the source of this 'occult' energy, I shall so contend. Animal magnetism and sleight-of-hand! What do you think, Mrs. Hunter?"

Amidon looked across and saw—Mrs. Hunter, of Hazelhurst! It was she and her daughter from whom he had bashfully flown to the buffet, just before he alighted from the train at Elm Springs Junction. As he looked at her all the old life returned to him! He saw himself sitting with her and Minnie in the car, as she talked fashions to him and chattered her anticipations of the lovely time Minnie was to have with the family of Senator Fowler on the Maine coast. He saw Blodgett come in, and himself seize the opportunity to escape with his lawyer to the buffet. Then he saw the rural railway platform, the fading glory of the west—and then the waking in the sleeping-car! Could it all be possible?

"Do you know the lady talking with Doctor Brown?" he asked of Miss Waldron.

"Mrs. Hunter?" said Elizabeth questioningly. "Why, didn't you meet her when you came in? She is Mrs. Pumphrey's sister, of Hazelhurst, Wisconsin. She receives with Mrs. Pumphrey to-night."

"I thought it was Mrs. Hunter, as soon as I saw her," answered Amidon; "she is an old acquaintance of mine."

And it was some little time, so far had he forgotten his peculiar position, before the baleful possibilities of this innocent and truthful remark occurred to him. When he thought of it, any observing friend might well have inquired after his health, so gray with pallor and moist with sweat had his face become. Not that he felt hanging over him any such danger as he had feared when he found himself in the shoes of another man, with that other man unaccounted for. He really cared very little about that, now. The people of Bellevale, and Hazelhurst, too, might think what they pleased about this mystery of disappearance and reappearance: he was independent of them all, and those he really cared about would understand.

But Elizabeth! Everything now revolved about her. Now that she had grown so dear—that she had come to smile on him in his new character—how could he let her know that this Eugene Brassfield whom she so admired and loved, was no more for ever; and that Florian Amidon had never seen her, never loved her, never wooed her until these past few days! Would she ever see him again? Could she regard him as anything else than an interloper and an impostor? His right to Brassfield's clothes and Brassfield's fortune might be as clear as Judge Blodgett said; but would not Elizabeth feel that as to her he had attempted the very deed of which he had first suspected himself—fraud and robbery? And her "perfect lover," whom Amidon habitually thought of as "that fellow Brassfield"—all the perfections which Elizabeth had learned to attribute to him, would no longer be credited to Amidon. It was tragic!

As a matter of fact, beloved, any man would have been a perfect lover, or none at all, to Elizabeth. A perfect lover is the noblest work of woman.

"Te autience," went on the professor, "vill haf te eggstreme gourtesy to assist in a temonstration of Madame le Claire's power as a hypnotist. Not effery vun gan pe hypnoticed te fairst dime; bud ve vill try. Vill te autience bleace suchest te name of a laty or shentleman as a supchect?"

"Doctor Brown!" said many voices. "Alvord!" said others, but most of the votes appeared to be for Brassfield—a name which the professor hailed joyfully as insuring against failure. It is not often that the audience will hit on the only practised sensitive in the room.

Madame le Claire started, as there was thus presented to her the thought of bringing her power to bear on Amidon. The serious results of her last exercise of it came vividly to her mind. Yet, here she was openly hypnotizing him. Here she could keep him under control. She could limit his Brassfield state as to time, or she could keep him in a state of automatism.

"Mr. Brassfield vill greatly obliche by goming forvart," said the professor; and, as he had learned to do, Amidon obeyed his request.

Elizabeth, standing near Mrs. Hunter, heard an agitated exclamation from that lady as Mr. Amidon went forward.

"For heaven's sake," said she, "it's Florian Amidon!"

"Who?" inquired Mrs. Pumphrey, "that? Why, that's our chief citizen, soon to be our chief magistrate, Mr. Eugene Brassfield."

Elizabeth heard no more, but in spite of perplexity at what she regarded as Mrs. Hunter's recognition of her lover's face and forgetfulness of his name, she could not help noticing her excited talk to her sister, and the meaning glances finally directed toward her, Elizabeth. Whereat, to hide a little rosy flush, Miss Waldron turned more completely toward the place of the hypnotist.

Madame le Claire stood in the little curtained alcove, empty save for the great tiger-skin rug, the dais, and a chair or two. She was gowned once more in the yellow and black, and stood in tigrine splendor cap-a-pie. Amidon felt her old power over him, as he approached her and looked into those mysterious eyes, and knew that he should do her bidding. She looked at his troubled countenance, and pitied him for his long evening of mental strain. She had seen his devotion to Elizabeth, and, be it confessed, was jealous in spite of herself. Pity and jealousy inspired the resolution which now formed in her mind: she would for an interval—an interval definitely limited—restore Eugene Brassfield to this company in which he was so completely at home, and lay the troubled ghost, Amidon. He would appear to better advantage altogether and do himself more credit; he would, in fact, be more convincingly Bellevale's "chief citizen."

She bowed deeply and waved him to the chair. Then she performed the charm of "woven paces and of waving arms," and he slept, "lost to life and use and name and fame."

"When he opens his eyes," said she, "he will know nothing, think nothing, do nothing, except what I suggest."

"Make him dance with the broom," suggested Cox.

"Let's have his inaugural address," petitioned Edgington.

"Give him this," said Alvord, offering a coin, "and make him think it's hot. People in this neighborhood would go farther to see Brassfield drop a piece of money, than to interview a live dinosaur!"

The laughter at this sally was lost on Madame le Claire. She was looking down on the unconscious Amidon, and wondering how any one could think of making him the instrument of buffoonery.

"I will perform only one simple, yet very difficult, lest," said she. "This gentleman will soon wake as Mr. Brassfield, and will be his old and usual self among you until a certain hour, which I will write on this card, and seal up in this envelope, so that no one will know, and inform Mr. Brassfield by suggestion. When that particular moment arrives, wherever he may be, whatever he may be doing, he will enter the cataleptic state. The test is regarded as a severe and perfect one. The card will remain in the possession of Major Pumphrey until it succeeds or fails, and the envelope will then be opened."

Kneeling on the dais, she seemed whispering in the subject's ear. Then, tapping his wrist, she said, decisively, "Wake!"

It was Eugene Brassfield who opened his eyes on a circle of his friends, associates and cronies. He rose lightly and confidently, and laughed at the chaffing of his friends. He bowed to Madame le Claire, and moved across the room to Elizabeth's side, with an air of incipient proprietorship.

"No true lover of carnations," he confided to her, "could wish you to wear them as you do to-night."

"Really? I suppose I ought to ask why?"

"It isn't fair to the flowers," said he. "Flowers have rights, you know, and to be outdone in sweetness—— Ah, Jim! Go away, and don't bother me! Don't you see I'm very busy?"

"Old man," said Alvord, answering to the name of "Jim," "it's good to see you as you are to-night—your old self. You'll make a hit, my boy. This will make it more than ever a cinch!"

Self-possessed, masterful, Mr. Brassfield moved through the assembly like a conqueror. Those who, a short time ago, found him dull and moody, rejoiced now in his confident persiflage pitched safely in the restful key of mediocrity, but possessed withal of a species of brilliancy, like the skilful playing of scales. Elizabeth noted the return of that dash and abandon which she had lately so missed—but for the first time the Brassfield music had a hollow ring in her ears. The subtler melody of last night—after all, it was best!

Madame le Claire, immensely popular, gave readings in palmistry. Miss Smith was to have a husband with dark eyes. Mr. Brassfield offered to cross her palm with any gold coin she might name, if she would promise him a sweetheart with party-colored eyes, who would meet him for a long talk next day. Madame le Claire blushed and dropped the hand.

Mr. Brassfield adroitly overtook Miss Scarlett, who seemed endeavoring to retreat. He stood by her, chatting lightly, using two voices, a distinct and conversational tone, and one so low as to be for her ear alone.

"Oh, isn't it a crush?" said he. "(Daise, what's the matter?) A perfect evening, though. (Are you running away from me?) And such delightful people! (The east room in ten minutes; is it yes?)"

Miss Scarlett nodded, and Brassfield moved on. Mrs. Pumphrey, Mrs. Hunter and Elizabeth Waldron were sipping punch.

"May I have some?" said he. "And, please, Mrs. Pumphrey, may I be presented to the guest of the evening?"

Mrs. Hunter received the introduction with a gasp.

"Is it possible," said she, "that you don't know me? Can the possessor of that voice and face be any one but Florian Amidon?"

"Amidon, Amidon?" he repeated. "Pardon me, but some one else spoke that name to me lately, and I was trying to recall the circumstances. It is in every way on my part to be regretted, as the fact has deprived me of the happiness of knowing you, that I am not Mr. Amidon. Am I so like him?"

"Oh, it isn't a matter of resemblance, but of identity!" replied Mrs. Hunter. "Were you never in Hazelhurst, Wisconsin?"

"Never," said Mr. Brassfield; "but I am beginning to see its beauties as a place of residence. And I hope to know more of this other Dromio before the evening is past."

Mrs. Hunter bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and Mr. Brassfield took himself gracefully from their presence. In the fashion of one pressed for time, he moved on.

Elizabeth had grown suddenly very grave. What did this conduct of her lover mean? A little while ago he had recognized Mrs. Hunter, at a distance, as an old acquaintance. Now he had audaciously outfaced her, and denied that he ever knew her. Could this be the man she had trusted with her all? Again her doubts and fears and scruples rose—rose instantly in full strength. The new impressions she had lately received of him vanished, and all the subtle suggestions of sordid lightness which the diplomacy of Brassfield, even, had not entirely kept from her mind, came back with multiplied distinctness. These transformations of character, these curious duplicities, and now this lie. She must think it over: it impressed her, and she must act.

"Auntie," said she, "let us go."

As down the stairway they came, robed for departure, they were conscious of a hum of excitement running through the assembly.

"Where is he? The envelope has been opened and the time is up! Where is he?" were the cries. "It's eleven: it's a minute past eleven! Where's Mr. Brassfield?"

At this moment, a scream, a soprano scream, high, long-drawn and piercing, the scream of a woman in terror, came echoing from the deserted east room. A body of guests rushed through the portieres, Madame le Claire, pale with fright, at their head, and Elizabeth borne with them, all looking to see what violence had provoked that scream. They saw Mr. Brassfield, seated on a sofa in a shadowy corner, holding both Miss Scarlett's hands in his; saw the girl frantically, but in vain, trying to take them from his grasp. He sat like a statue, with his eyes set wide and unwinking like a corpse's, every limb and muscle rigid, his body tense and immovable as a stone image. The sight was terrible. It was as if the living man had been transformed in an instant into a ghastly trap, to catch those soft, warm, pretty hands! She ceased her efforts to break away, but stood white and almost fainting, and begging hysterically for help.

Madame le Claire leaped forward like a tigress, so light was her step, and passed her hand over his eyes, so as to close them. Then, bending her gaze one moment piercingly on his face, she sharply tapped his wrist and uttered the single word, "Wake!"

Florian Amidon opened his eyes. He saw that something extraordinary was taking place, for, in the act of opening his eyes, he had seen Miss Scarlett fall back into the arms of Mr. Cox, and knew that she was being conveyed rapidly away.

"It iss now," said the professor, "vun minute past eleven. Te test, you vill atmit, hass peen a gomplete success. Dis sairgumsdance vill pe noted as exdablishing to a sairtain eggstent an important brinciple, ant hass peen in effery vay bleasant ant a success: not?"

A laugh or two was heard, then more laughter, then a little hum of reviving talk, and one could observe that the affair was to be passed off as one of the mysteries of occultism.

"Well," said Mr. Amidon, "if I have contributed my share to the gaiety of the occasion, I shall beg now to be permitted to depart."

The Waldrons were waiting for their carriage as he came down.

"There will be plenty of assistance," said the aunty "and we shall not need to detain you."

"Oh, auntie, auntie!" wept Elizabeth, when they were safely alone, "there was a spell upon him, as you say, there in the east room, but the spell that took him there was none of the hypnotist's working! I am shamed, and humiliated, and robbed of all I have to live for! He went there, auntie, of his own accord, and left me!"

Mr. Alvord passed the thing off more lightly.

"Confound it!" said he, "I wish they were in Hades with their mesmeric stunts! I shan't tell Brass what happened, for it won't do any good; and the less notice there's taken of it the better. But carrying things before him as he was—it was hard luck to have that occur. Puts him in an undignified position, to say the least. I wish I could think there was nothing more to it!"



XXII

A REVIVAL OF BELSHAZZAR

We are but Sitters at the Table, Guests, Where each drinks more, the more that he protests, Sees, One by One, his Fellows slip from Sight, And then himself beneath the Table rests. * * * * * * Some walk the Sinuous Crack for Test, and Some Judge by the throbbing Fullness of the Thumb— But lo! the Fool continues till the Guests Are changed to Pairs of Twins as in they come! —Imitations of Immorality.

Barring the somewhat equivocal episode of the east room at Major Pumphrey's, everything had gone to Mr. Alvord's liking since Mr. Brassfield had placed the campaign in his hands. And, as a matter of fact, that affair was so susceptible of plausible explanation, and so fenced about by the sanctities of private hospitality, that Alvord was reassured after a day or two had passed with no public scandal. Amidon stayed away from headquarters, and Alvord, acting under the unlimited authority granted by Brassfield, took all responsibility and proceeded most effectively in his own way. Amidon's instructions by telephone, to prepare a statement of disbursements to be made public, he regarded as one of Brassfield's jokes. His suggestion that he meant to stand on a platform of principles seemed equally humorous. To propose such ridiculous things in a perfectly serious way, and laugh at the victim's credulity in "biting" on the hoax, was quite in harmony with the relations among the members of the set to which they belonged, where practical jokes, merciless chaffing and perpetual efforts to get the best of one another had given the group a more than local celebrity.

Having, therefore, no suspicion that his candidate's platform of principles was in the hands of the reporters, and would appear in the next morning's papers, Alvord took his way to the annual supper of the A. O. C. M. feeling that all was well in the world, and that here, at least, his candidate would acquit himself well.

Messrs. Bulliwinkle and Cox were absent when the time came for sitting down to supper, and Mr. Simpson, the Master of the Revels, decreed that no one was to be waited for. So the chairs of the absentees were shoved up, and reminded Mr. Slater, who was quite high in spirits, of The Vacant Chair, which he sang to the bass of Judge Blodgett, and a humming accompaniment by Alvord and Edgington. Professor Blatherwick listened with rapt attention and was much affected.

"Dis iss Heidelberg unt stutent tays," said he. "Strong and luffing hearts, ant veak hets ant stomachs! Oh, te svorts ant steins ant songs ant scraps! It iss brotuctife of tears ant schmiles!"

"Especially smiles," said Mr. Simpson; "and right in that connection, these cocktails are supposed to go in ahead of the refection. Gentlemen, a good time to all!"

Now, after some courses of soup and fish and entrees, Mr. Alvord noted the cocktails and the unconsumed glasses of wine at the plates of Bulliwinkle and Cox, and with a sense of equity truly Anglo-Saxon, he raised the point that it was an injustice to those who had been prompt, to have these two fresh competitors come in late and entirely sober in the middle of the feast.

"Point seems to be well taken," said Judge Blodgett. "I move, your Honor, that the wet goods apportionable to our absent friends be set aside for them."

"Sustained!" roared Simpson. "Let the booze of Bulliwinkle and Cox be filed away for future reference, in the sideboard!"

So their glasses stood in two rows, lengthening course by course, awaiting the coming of the absentees. And thus it was that when Mr. Bulliwinkle, fat, bald, and rubicund, made his appearance, the proceedings were suspended until he had imbibed his share, glass by glass, beginning with the cocktails and ending temporarily with Madeira. Then Mr. Bulliwinkle suddenly became profoundly grave, and was soon detected by Alvord in the act of stealthily endeavoring to place his finger accurately upon certain small round spots in the table-cloth. Whereupon, Mr. Bulliwinkle, to show how entirely he had himself in hand, proposed a toast in verse beginning,

"Now here's to the girl with the auburn hair, And the shoulders whiter than snow,"

and drank it off in a bumper. All seemed to forget Bulliwinkle at this and transferred their attention to Amidon, and pounded on the table and called for a response from him. Blodgett nodded for him to yield, and in order that he might be fully in character, Florian began by saying that they, who knew him so well were quite well aware that he could respond to a toast in honor of the girl with the auburn hair——

"Or any other old color!" shouted Edgington.

"Or all colors at once!" roared a nameless wight at the foot of the table.

At which gaucherie, the nameless wight was the recipient of nudges and scowls in the direction of the professor (who was probably unaware of the color of the hair on his own head, to say nothing of his daughter's) and Edgington filled the gap caused by the unexpected collapse of Amidon's response by charging that Cox was absent because of his having recently taken passage upon the water-wagon, and was traitorously staying away. Alvord proposed that a messenger be sent for him, and when the A. D. T. boy came, a written summons was penned on a menu card, on which progress to date was checked, and instructions given that the document be presented to Cox at his home every twenty minutes until he came—Cox to pay the charges; and the messenger to return between trips to report, and to have the menu checked up so that Cox might note the forward movement of events, and see how far he was behind.

When Mr. Simpson rose to make a few general observations ushering in that part of the program usually devoted to speech-making, Mr. Bulliwinkle, whose vision was slightly impaired, took him for the tardy Cox and some friend whom Cox had brought, and greeted them with a strident "How-de-do!" After this blunder, of course, Mr. Bulliwinkle was logically bound to show that the exclamation was uttered by virtue of a deliberate plan, and so he repeated it from time to time all the evening, until the ordeal of mixed drinks, to which his late arrival had subjected him, proved too much for his endurance and robbed him of speech. But this is anticipating.

A dozen matches were burning and a dozen Havanas sending forth their first cloudlets of blue over the sparkling glasses of champagne, as Mr. Simpson began his remarks.

"To most of those present," he said, "I don't need to say that this is a sort of annual affair. To our new friends I will explain that this club is an institution of Bellevale Lodge, Number 689, of the Ancient Order of Christian Martyrs, of which noble fraternity we are all devoted members. Present company are members, ex or incumbent, of the Board of Control, and a system of fines for absence at board meetings accumulates a fund which has to be spent, and we are now engaged in spending it. Beyond the logic of the situation, which points unerringly to the blowing-in of this fund, the impending happy event in the life of our treasurer, Brother Brassfield, together with the public honors already and about to be conferred on him, render it fitting that this banquet be in his honor. What the devil is that racket? Oh, the boy——! Let the wandering caitiff enter! What says the recreant invader of our Mystic Circle?"

"He said he'd hev' me 'rested 'f I came there any more, an' the whole bunch pulled," said the boy. "An' he chucked the paper out o' the winder."

"Let another scroll be prepared," roared Simpson, "and go back to him as per schedule."

"But," said the boy, "he said——"

"We hold the police force in the hollow of our hands!" shouted Simpson. "We will protect you."

"I should say we would!" "You trust us!" "To the death!" chorused the roisterers.

"I'll collect damages from him for your death!" said Judge Blodgett. "Whom do you want 'em paid to?"

"D'vide the boodle," said the boy, "among my grandchildren—ekally. Do I go back?"

"You do," said Simpson, "as soon as another Exhibit A is prepared."

"It's ready, most noble Potentate," said Edgington ritualistically.

"Then let the messenger depart. Where's that menu I had? Hang it, you've used it for the kid, and it had my remarks on it. As I was saying, this is Brassfield's night. Everybody tells a story, sings a song or dances."

Edgington told a story which, he said, was "on Brassfield," and showed what regular devil that gentleman had been. It seemed that he and "Brass" were at one time fly-fishing in the mountains, and Eugene had so wrought on the fancy of the schoolmistress that she had let school out at three, and gone to learn casting of Brassfield.

"And when they came to the house at suppertime," he went on, "the whole family were laying for them. 'Ketch anything?' said the old lady, 'anythin' more'n a bullhead?' 'I c'n see,' said the hired man, 'that she's been castin' purty hard, by the way her dress is kinder pressed around the waist. It allers fixes mine that way!'"

And so on, to the narration of the outbreak of hostilities with the hired man, and the flight of Brassfield and Edgington. At every point Amidon winced, as he got views of Brassfield's character which hypnotism could not yield, and the assembly roared the louder at his embarrassment.

The messenger boy returned again by this time, still unsuccessful, and was provided with a bunch of cannon fire-crackers to be exploded in Cox's front yard so that the invitation to the banquet might not be overlooked. Then Slater told of Mr. Brassfield's adventures at the Mardi Gras, the story consisting mostly of the account of Eugene's wonderful series of winnings at the race course, where he adopted the system of always finding what horse was given the longest odds, and playing him.

"Our friend," said Slater, "on that last day, was too full of mint-juleps and enthusiasm to tell the field from the judges' stand. Said he never saw the judges' stand run with the horses before (laughter); thought it was a good idea—judges could always tell whether the riding was fair (cheers); and put his money on Azim at about one hundred to one; and when Azim romped in a winner, they stuffed all his pockets full of money, and the reporters came with cameras to get shots at the northern millionaire who had such a thundering run of luck, and you ought to have seen 'Gene when he saw the papers in the morning! Had to take him to Pass Christian next day. It was too strenuous for your humble servant at New Orleans. All the sports knew him by this time, and wanted to run into him so as to touch him for luck, and 'Gene wanted to fight every guy that touched him, and about half the time was getting accommodated and taking second money in every fight!" (Great laughter and applause.)

Amidon was unable to tell as to the absolute truth of these tales, but they had such verisimilitude that they impressed and shocked him. He was doubly astounded at the evident enjoyment with which they were received by his friends, and especially at the fact of the hearty and unrestrained manner in which Blodgett and even Blatherwick joined in the applause. Every shot from the quiver of horse-play (except those aimed at the luckless Cox) seemed directed at him, Amidon the dignified. Here, it seemed, he was known to have been guilty of gambling, drunkenness and libertinism—the three vices that he most detested. His face burned with shame. How had Elizabeth ever cared for such a man as that villain Brassfield? Where was the Sir Galahad, or Lancelot either, in this life? He must somehow, some time, find a way to tell her that it was Brassfield, not Amidon, who had done these things, and that he, Amidon, reared by a doting mother and cared for by a solicitous sister, and all his life the model of the moral town of Hazelhurst, was as innocent of these things as she was.

These thoughts so filled his mind that he heard very little of Judge Blodgett's dialect story. Professor Blatherwick began a German song full of trilled r's, achs and hochs; but became offended at Bulliwinkle's strident "How-de-do!" at the end of the first stanza, and quit. Whereupon Bulliwinkle, for the first time sensing the fact that something was wrong, in the goodness of his heart began singing, Dot's How Poor Yacob Found It Oudt, in seeming compliment to the nationality of the professor; but, owing to the subtlety of the reasoning, the professor failed to take it as such. He took mortal umbrage instead, and hurled his card down on the table with a bang, at which Bulliwinkle slipped under the mahogany,

"Gently as a skylark settles down Upon the clustered treasures of her nest."

Meantime, Mr. Simpson had called on Mr. Knaggs to do a dance, as he alleged himself unable to do anything else. Mr. Knaggs responded, and did pretty well considering the lateness of the hour, but insisted that he ought to have a better surface than the carpet. Amidon dimly resented as an impropriety Mr. Knaggs' brilliant proof of the correctness of his position regarding the carpet, by a tumultuously successful clog-dance on the table.

By this time, it being past the hour for retiring, according to the habit of most, several of the guests were asleep, and most of the rest were indulging in monologues under the impression that they were conversing with their neighbors. Edgington was on his feet proposing a series of interrogatories in strictly legal form requiring Amidon to say how he got the support of Barney Conlon, what there was in his labor record to win the support of Sheehan and Zalinsky, and various other matters. At Alvord's request, Judge Blodgett was moving that these be "struck out," while Slater insisted that it ought to be a "base on balls." It was a new experience for Amidon. He was surprised to find a something in it which he enjoyed. The very hubbub was interesting.

No wonder, such being the conditions, that the A. D. T. boy rapped long and was not heard. No wonder that the ultimate opening of the door was unnoted by those present, or that no one observed the tall man with whisker extensions to a mustache naturally too large, who came in after the messenger. Observed or not, however, he entered and walked heavily down the banqueting-hall.

"Brassfield, a summons for you," said he fiercely. "Here's the copy; this is the 'rig'nal. Waive the readin', I s'pose? Sorry to interrupt. So long."

Amidon looked at the stiff document as if it had been a Gila monster on toast. He saw such words as "State of Pennsylvania, County of Rockoil, ss," and "Default will be taken against you, and judgment rendered thereon," and sundry dates and figures. Instinctively he turned to Judge Blodgett, saying:

"What's this, Blodgett?"

A tremor of panic seized on Amidon, and a wave of sobriety passed over the guests. Much the same thing must have marked the breaking up of the feast of Belshazzar. The roisterers gazed at the paper, or began their preparations for departure.

"What is it?" asked Amidon.

"I don't know enough about the practice here," said the judge slowly, "to be able to say whether it's good or not—seems to have been hastily and rather slovenly gotten up——"

"But what is the damned thing?" shouted Alvord; "cut it short and tell us."

"Seems perfectly regular, though," went on the judge deliberately. "It's a summons in the case of Daisy Scarlett versus Eugene Brassfield in a suit for twenty-five thousand dollars for breach of promise of marriage."

Amidon sank back in a collapse which was almost a faint. The little nervous Alvord rose to command.

"Now," said he, standing in his place, "I want to say a few words before a man leaves this room. I know something of this case, and I want you to take my word that there's no more foundation for it than there would be if it were brought against any one of us. And furthermore, there must be nothing said about this. These papers are not on record yet, and I believe something can be done. Why, confound it, something shall be done! Every man must pledge me his word that he won't breathe a word of this, and will deny it if asked about it."

"We promise!" came the unanimous shout.

Alvord walked toward the guest of honor, tripping over the legs of Bulliwinkle as he went, and offered his hand to Amidon.

"I say, old man, I warned you that you were carrying on a little strong; and now here's a—"

"How-de-do!" said Bulliwinkle.

In vino veritas! Truly, most bibulous Bulliwinkle, thou hast supplied the very word to convey the meaning for which we at this moment desire expression! Here's a how-de-do indeed! Just as our friend Amidon has made a successful lodgment in the outworks of Port Waldron—a citadel which he had taken by stratagem, abandoned for conscience' sake, and re-invested on lines of fairer warfare, to say nothing of the investment of the mayoralty—the hope of victory is swallowed up in a sea of disasters. The meeting on the stairway, the repudiation of Mrs. Hunter, the arrested flirtation in the east room: all these—any of these—were enough: but what hope for us remains, after this sensational summons, served in the small hours of a bacchanalian revel, in a breach-of-promise action at the suit of the dreadful "Strawberry Blonde"? Verily, Bulliwinkle, here is indeed a how-de-do!

"Old man," said Mr. Alvord, in private communication to Mr. Amidon at parting, "we're none of us in condition to discuss this calmly now; but don't give up. It's a blow, but with our pull with the press, and our personal relations with Cox, can be squelched, I believe. Until after election——"

"Until when?" asked Amidon dazedly.

"After election," answered Alvord. "After that, while it will be a blow, of course, it won't wreck things quite so completely, you know. And even if it does sort of leak out, it's one of those mix-ups that lots of voters'll rather admire you for, you know. It may react in your favor, if we can——"

"Mr. Alvord," said Amidon, "please to understand that I don't care a rush, one way or the other, about this election!"

"Now, now, don't say that!" said Alvord soothingly. "I can see how you feel, 'Gene—pride, and affection, and Bessie, and the wedding coming on—but, pshaw, we lots of us have things kind of tangle up on us coming in on the home stretch of a pretty swift heat! Go home, and don't worry too much. I'm with you, and we'll win. F. D. and B., you know. Keep the other strings pulling right—it's only a day or so now. Good night, old man, and brace up! See you to-morrow."

One rather likes the optimistic fighter—purely as a fighter—of the Alvord stripe. He was so occupied with plans for the next day's battle that the dubious features of the contest were already clearing up in his mind with the forming of plans for attacking the situation. A few hours of sleep, and he was up and at them. His telephone called up the editors of the town with the morning star. Long before the enemy could have known of the breach in his works, his trusty troops were busy filling it up. He was almost happy again, when Edgington rushed into his presence with a newspaper crushed in his clenched fist, and all sorts of disaster depicted in his expression.

"Jim," he cried, "have you seen this?"

"No," answered Alvord. "It ain't that Scarlett business? I thought I'd got that——"

"No, no! It isn't that!" groaned Edgington. "But we're done, all the same! Done to a finish! You might as well close the headquarters and go home, for if we win, on this platform, we lose, and all the money we've put in is lost! I tell you, Jim, 'Gene Brassfield is either insane—and I believe it's that—or he's the damnedest traitor and sneak and two-faced hound that ever stepped, and I'll have it out with him! Some way, if I wait ten years, I'll have it out with him, if I have to do it with a gun! His business leaves my office at once. Why, there aren't words fit for me to use, to describe the miserable, false, lying——"

"See here, Edge!" said Alvord. "We may be done, as you say, but Eugene Brassfield has made you, and he's my friend, and you'd better not go on like that, here! Let me see that paper!"

Edgington threw it to him. In heavy type he saw the fateful platform summarized in a black-bordered panel on the first page:

BRASSFIELD'S PLATFORM

1. Strict enforcement of early closing regulations for saloons.

2. No franchises except on public bidding, and ample provision for subsequent acquisition by the city.

3. Gambling laws to be strictly enforced.

4. Segregation of vice.

5. Vote of the people on all important measures.

6. Appointments non-partizan on the merit system.

7. Publication of all items of campaign expenses.

Alvord fell back in utter dismay. Then he read in full the manifesto which Amidon and Elizabeth had prepared; and, folding up the paper, he stuck it in a drawer, which he locked, as if thereby to seal up the direful news. For a moment he felt betrayed and utterly defeated. Then he straightened himself for a resumption of the battle.

"See here, Edge," he said insinuatingly, "this is pretty bad, I admit. I think, myself, that Brass is off his head. He 'phoned me once about this, but he's such a josher, and it was such wild-eyed lunacy that I thought he was kidding. You'd have thought so, too, in my place. But we can pull through yet. We can convince the sports that this high-moral business is only for the church people, and the civic purity push. Why, Brassfield himself couldn't make Fatty Pierson believe he stands for this stuff. It's so out of reason,—the safe and sane life he's lived. And I'll undertake to keep the God-and-morality folks lined up, because these are really the things they say they want. This ain't going to be so very bad, after all, Edge!"

"Bad!" ejaculated Edgington. "Why, Alvord, you're so wrapped up in Brassfield that you're ready to go crazy with him!"

"Well, I want to say right here," shouted Alvord, "that if you think I'm going to quit on a man I've eaten with and slept with and sworn to stay by—By gad, I won't!"

"Well, stay by him, then!" cried Edgington. "Go on and butt your brains out on this stone wall of ism, and see where you come out. You're already beaten. The other side knew about this last night, and you'll be blown out of water before to-morrow morning. Doctor Bulkon and his crowd are already lined up against you: the doctor will take the position that Brassfield's proposal to segregate vice is a compromise with sin, and that that's the paramount issue. Why, Pumphrey and Johnson and the Williams set are all among his best-paying parishioners, and they've put the screws to Bulkon—who doesn't see the point, anyhow. I tell you that there are too many pillars of the church with downtown property to rent, for you to keep either them or their pastors in line. They'll find moral issues to fight the ten commandments on, if they have to. You ought to know this, Jim."

"Well," said Alvord, "let the Pharisees oppose us! I'll appeal to the liberal element. I'll convince 'em that Brassfield don't mean this stuff. They like him, and they'll stick!"

"Stick!" sneered Edgington. "Like him! You make me tired, Jim! How long will they 'stick' against the influence of their landlords and bankers? Why, they've all read this platform, and the story has gone down the line that Brassfield is so infatuated with Miss Waldron that he's allowing her to write his platform, and that she'll be the mayor. Don't you think that that won't cut the ground from under you, either! A saloon man or gambler fears a good woman's influence as a wolf fears fire. Why, Jim, when this 'advanced thought' platform of yours comes to be voted on, there won't be any one for it except thick-and-thin party men who 'never scratch.' Now I'm not going down with any such sinking scow. I shall make terms for my financial interests with the other side."

"Go, then!" shouted Alvord, "and find you've hopped out of the frying pan into the fire! By George, I tell you we've got the money to buy this election!"

"Oh!" said Edgington, "have you! And how about your publishing an itemized account of campaign expenses?"

Alvord, his last card played, fell back beaten, every vestige of optimistic pugnacity gone from his face. Edgington laid his hand on the other's shoulder, in sympathy.

"I tell you, Jim," said he, as he departed, "this is no place nor time to run a reform campaign. Brassfield isn't the candidate for it, and you're not the manager. You're simply fish trying to fly. Come with me and we'll get into our natural element."

"Not by a good deal," said Alvord stubbornly. "I don't know anything in this but Brassfield, and to him I'll stick!"

"As you please," said Edgington. "But keep the lid on the Scarlett business!"

Alvord made no reply. But when Edgington was gone he took up his work with a groan of real distress.



XXIII

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES

To the Queen came the guard full of zeal: Haled in bonds the Pretender: "Shall it be noose or knout, rack or wheel?" But her proud face grew tender. Down she stepped from her throne—made him free; "Love," she said, with a sigh, "What is rank? You are you, we are we, I am I!" —The Cheating of Zenobia.

I should like to write, just here, a little disquisition on Crises. I should show how all nature moves ever on and on toward certain cataclysmic events, each of which marks a point of departure for new ascents in progression. I should begin, of course, with the Nebular Hypothesis, its crash of suns, followed by the evolution of the star and its system of planets, its life, cooling, death, and a fresh crisis forming a new nebula. I should end with either Revolutions or Malaria, depending on whether I should last consider the subject in its relation to sociology or to pathology; but in any case, somewhere along in the latter third of the work, I should treat of Love and Marriage, and therein of the Crisis and Catastrophe in Romance.

I have a good mind to do it!

But, no; crises in general must wait, seeing that our particular one stands clamoring for solution. The concrete bids away with the abstraction. None of our friends of this history could be brought just now, for a single moment, to seek solace in philosophy, unless it might be Professor Blatherwick—and he is entirely oblivious of the fact of the crisis having made its appearance.

Not so, for instance, with the professor's extraordinary daughter, whose feelings were so lacerated by the culminating proof of the fickleness of Brassfield at the Pumphreys' reception that she wondered how she could ever have thought of keeping him in that perfidious plane of consciousness in the hope that therein he would cleave to her only. Better a good friend in Amidon, said she, than a false lover in Brassfield. Howbeit, she isolated herself and mourned, thinking much of the wrong her deed of the reception had done to Amidon, and wondering how it might be remedied.

Nor with Mr. Amidon, who, while ignorant of the full extent of his misfortune in the eyes of Elizabeth, yet knew that he was deep, deep in disgrace with her, and found so many plausible reasons for it that the episode at the reception seemed the least of them. He knew enough of Brassfield to believe him guilty on any charge which might be brought against him. The only doubt he allowed himself was as to how far he, Florian Amidon, was morally responsible for Brassfield's wrong-doings. He had no doubt that Miss Scarlett had a real grievance against Brassfield, and, in an extremity of woe, made up his mind that Amidon must hold himself to the sorry trade of answering a debt he never contracted. He knew from a brief interview with Alvord that the political situation was bad, but for this he had scarcely a thought since the tragic breaking-up of their little Belshazzar's Feast. It was his relations with Miss Waldron and Miss Scarlett which placed him beyond the reach of philosophy.

So also is Judge Blodgett, who has been busy since the banquet, some of the time with a towel about his brow, searching through Edgington's library, to which his connection with the Bunn's Ferry well case gave him the entree, for the law of breach of promise of marriage as defined by the Pennsylvania decisions. Edgington himself was apparently always from his office. Blodgett's call on Fuller and Cox was most unsatisfactory, Mr. Fuller with some acerbity disclaiming all knowledge of any such case as Scarlett versus Brassfield, and Mr. Cox being invisible.

"They act," said he to Florian, "like people who are out for revenge, or a vindication, or something besides money. I don't consider their attitude favorable to a compromise."

"Well," said Amidon, "that does not surprise me at all."

"It doesn't, eh?" went on the judge. "Well, I can't say that anything surprises me; though I was a little taken off my feet by a rumor that something took place between you and the plaintiff at that party the other night. How was that?"

"There may have been something," said Amidon calmly, "but you must get particulars from some one else—Clara, perhaps. You see, she was giving tests, and put me into that—Brassfield state, (why, I can't understand)—and I don't know what occurred; but there was something."

"I'd like to know about that," said the judge contemplatively, "I'd like to know. That stairway episode—that collision, you remember—may not count for much on the trial; but with a few corroborative circumstances, eh, my boy? Farmer jury; pretty girl; blighted affection; damned villain, you know. But say! she's got something to prove if she wins, under the authorities here, and there are more cases in this state than there ought to be in the whole world; but a summer-resort engagement, girl of mature years, a little bit swift down the quarter-stretch and all that—cheer up, Florian, we'll win, or we'll make it a great case——"

"Blodgett," answered Amidon, who heard with horror the lawyer's forecast of the trial, "she may not have to prove anything. There may not be any trial. I must know these facts! I may owe her reparation. I may—anything! I must know; and no one but Madame le Claire can help us, and she must act through that accursed scoundrel who has got us into all this—Brassfield! Go to her, Blodgett, and tell her that she must see us. I have asked for an interview a dozen times since that reception but she won't see any one. Get an interview for this afternoon; and you must be present and hear her bring out of him a full confession; not as my attorney, but as my friend, as a gentleman. If you find out the worst, as I believe, I shall offer——"

Judge Blodgett gave Amidon's hand a warm grasp.

"That's like you, Florian," he exclaimed, "and it's the part of a man! But I'd see her in Halifax first! Why, you may be called to give up—have you considered—Miss Wald——"

"No no!" said Amidon, "that—she is no longer a factor in the case. It's all over with her anyhow, if—— I can't talk of that; but can't you see that this other matter must be cleared up—before I can even come into her presence? Can't you see——"

"I'll see the madame," said the judge. "Yes—I'll see her! I'll see her at once. I guess you're right about it, Florian."

Madame le Claire was keenly conscious of the converging lines of fate, the meeting of which was so rich in baleful promise. She was prostrated at the result of her work at the reception. She had seen Florian in a position of utter humiliation. She had observed the gray pallor in Elizabeth's face as she walked from the room, and felt on her conscience the murder of their happiness. She had seen—and this hurt her more than she would to herself admit—she had seen Brassfield walk from a whispered conversation with herself—an amorous, wooing conversation—to a secret meeting with Daisy Scarlett; so that she felt despoiled of the hold she had had on the affections of even Amidon's false second self, Brassfield. For all this she blamed herself because of the little jealous spite, to gratify which she had made Brassfield walk his disastrous hour on the stage. What should she do? What could she do? She secluded herself and pondered. On this second day, she made her resolve: she would see Miss Waldron, and if possible explain as much of the mystery as might serve to satisfy her with reference to the affair of the East Room. Accordingly, a note went up to the house with the white columns, asking for a meeting. And as the messenger departed, the card of Judge Blodgett came in.

"No!" said Madame le Claire, to his request, "no, I must be excused! I can not conscientiously put him in that state again. If you could have seen him when last——"

"Exactly!" said the judge, filling in the pause. "And as I didn't see that reception affair, you must tell me about it. It's important for me to know."

When he had been told, the judge walked back and forth in evident perturbation, fingering over the leaves of a little square book which he took from his pocket.

"Did you ever," said he at last, "happen to hear what was the rule laid down in the breach of promise case of Hall versus Maguire?"

"Breach of promise!" ejaculated the young woman, inferring a volume from the words. "What do you mean?"

"These facts of which you inform me," said he, "bring Mr. Amidon's case within the rule in Hall versus Maguire, square as a die! Oh, I forgot to tell you! Mr. Amidon, doing business under the name and style of Eugene Brassfield, has been sued by Miss Daisy Scarlett, for breach of promise. No publicity, as yet, but——"

"Oh, it must be stopped!" exclaimed the occultist; "it shall be stopped! He is not guilty. He was irresponsible—ask papa about it; he will tell you so. This girl is coming to see me here to-day: I'll tell her how wrong——"

"No, no, my dear!" said the judge in a fatherly manner. "That would never do, never! You may have given a hint as to this matter of irresponsibility, worth considering. Promise of marriage—civil contract; abnormal state—irresponsibility: it looks pretty well! You should have been a lawyer. But this thing of having dealings with Miss Scarlett except in the presence of and through her legal advisers, Messrs. Fuller and Cox—not for a moment to be thought of by an honorable practitioner: not for a moment!"

Madame le Claire regarded him with a lofty scorn meant for these antiquated scruples of his; but before she could find words, the knock of the bell-boy called her attention to the door.

"Miss Waldron is below!" said she. "Judge, you may bring Mr. Amidon up in half an hour. I shall then be at liberty, and may grant his request. Please leave me, now; I have asked Miss Waldron to be shown up, and must see her alone."

Elizabeth Waldron, in this plexus of disasters, found nowhere a gleam of comfort. Her fine chagrin at the thought of such things as she feared might be censurable as overfree self-revelation to her lover in such things as letters and the sweet concessions of the new betrothal—all this was past, now. Tragedy has this of comfort in it: its fateful lightnings burn out of the atmosphere of life all the noisome littlenesses which have seemed worthy of concern. So it was with Elizabeth, as she now faced the very annihilation of all for which she had lived—centered in that "perfect lover," who was now worse than annihilated in this descent to a plane which made every act of homage to her so mean and common that she would have felt his status uplifted by some proof of great guilt on his part. And she could see no way of acquitting him. There was mystery in it, but no exculpation. Mystery——

With the idea of mystery came in the image of the strange girl with the fascinating glance and the party-colored hair. Could it be possible that the occult power possessed by her might somehow furnish an explanation of her lover's strangely base behavior? More and more did this fixed thought engross her mind. She felt that she must know—must see this woman and her colorless father. Desire grew to resolve; resolve bred inquiry as to ways of compassing an interview; and in the midst of the inquiry, came Madame le Claire's messenger. Her answer was the putting on of her cloak for a visit to the occultist's parlors.

The two women faced each other like hostile champions in a truce. Elizabeth's first aversion to the other had been swept away in the flood of righteous jealousy created by the Scarlett episode. Madame le Claire's unreasoning feeling of injury had been mitigated by the same baleful affair, and her sense of justice fought for Elizabeth; but no two women loving the same man ever met without antagonism.

"I thank you," said Miss Waldron, "for this invitation. I think you owe me the benefit of such light as you can give on some—some things—which are dark to me."

A little angry flush rose to Madame le Claire's cheek at the tone in which the first part of this speech was uttered. It passed away, and was replaced by a gentler expression at the doleful and faltering conclusion.

"I owe you," she answered, "more in the way of knowledge than you imagine. I expect other visitors. Will you step into this little rear room? I may be called away from you for a while, but I shall return."

"I need not tell you," said Elizabeth, "how vitally important it is to me to know whether there was anything in your mesmeric influence over—Mr. Brassfield—which would cause him to do—things unworthy of him—as he did. Did you impose any such thing on him by your power?—could you have been so cruel?"

"Before I answer that," replied Clara, "there are many things to tell. When did you first meet Mr. Amidon.—Brassfield, I mean?"

"Why do you call him by that name?" cried Elizabeth. "That is what Mrs. Hunter called him! One moment he told me he knew her; the next, he denied it to her face. What is there in this matter of names?"

Madame le Claire looked with a fixed and unwavering calmness at Miss Waldron, and answered in a tone of perfect reassurance.

"There is nothing in it which can't be easily explained. You have known Mr. Brassfield a long time?"

"Since I was seventeen. He did my aunt and me a great favor, which lifted us out of poverty—about some land we had, and oil discoveries—I went away soon after this, but he has always been very kind and good—until—until this——"

Elizabeth walked to the window and looked out for a long time, during which Madame le Claire regarded her fixedly and tried not to hate her.

"Did he tell you much of his past?"

"No, he said it was a very ordinary past, and that he would tell us all about it some time; and then the subject never came up again. I never really cared!"

"Let me tell it to you," said Madame le Claire. "He was, all his life, a man of wealth and standing. He was a scholar and a student of the fine arts and letters. He was the pride of his town and his university. Then, all at once, nearly six years ago, came on him one of those strange experiences of which I, through my profession, am able to speak to you as one having knowledge. He became another man. His mind had drawn across it a dead line cutting off everything back of a certain date. He did not tell you of his life, because he did not remember it himself."

Elizabeth gasped, and turned pale.

"This life of his——" she began.

"—was a life which was in every way better—which will add to your pride in him. But you must be prepared for some strange and unexpected things. Now, for instance, a name—a name seems important; but what is it? This loss of personality—of self-consciousness relating to the past—it was loss of name, of mode of life, of all memory, except certain blind, unconscious reflexes, in which the brain had no part. How the name of Brassfield was suggested to this new-born personality of his, no one can tell, he least of all. But——"

"Then his name—his name is—is not——"

Now here was a situation for a diplomat. To say that Brassfield was an assumed name, an alias, was to shock the girl's womanish conservatism to its very base. Madame le Claire proved herself a diplomat.

"Why," said she, as if the matter were, after all, of no importance, "the name of Brassfield is his, legally, Judge Blodgett says, and morally. These business names, as distinguished from others, are quite common now, I am told—take mine, for instance. Eugene Brassfield was not his name until five years ago, when this happened. He is really Florian Amidon, son of the chemist Wilford Amidon, of whom, I have no doubt, you have read."

The fact that the name of Wilford Amidon had never reached her ears, did not occur to Elizabeth. Madame le Claire's choice of expression sounded like the announcement that Florian was a prince just throwing off his incognito. The subtle sophistry of this way of putting it found grateful harborage in Elizabeth's hungry soul. For a moment she felt comforted. Then came back the thought that, after all, she had found out nothing of the matters she had come to search out.

"It is very strange," said she, "but, after all, it only adds to the mystery. Why did he do those things? Did you make him do them? And why did he say that he knew Mrs. Hunter, and then deny it? And if he knew about his past when he said he knew her, did he not know it as well afterward? I can not be blinded to these matters by a statement of things merely mysterious and strange. I must have——"

"My friend," said Madame le Claire, "all these things will be explained, trust me. The person tapping at the outer door is Judge Blodgett with Mr. Am——with your future husband. Things will occur of which you should know, and which can not take place if they know you are here. It will be most honorable for you to stay. Remain here and note well what happens, and you will get much light on your troubles, and on his—of some of which you do not yet know, which I do not understand, but which will be cleared up. You will say nothing, but watch and listen."

Before Miss Waldron could protest, the other woman was gone. Florian and Judge Blodgett were brought into the middle room, and seated with their faces from the portiere, behind which Elizabeth waited, wondering what she should do, feeling that she had the right to know, and obedient to the mesmerist's commands. Mr. Amidon began in medias res, too full of grim determination for any circumlocution.

"Madame le Claire," said he, "recently, as I sat at supper, I was notified that this Miss Scarlett has begun suit against me for breach of promise."

"Yes," said Madame le Claire, "I have heard of it. It is most unjust."

Elizabeth, astounded at Amidon's statement, heard her new friend's reply as some far-off note of succor in doubtful and deadly battle. She sat close, now, and listened.

"Ever since I came to myself," went on Amidon, "and through your wonderful power found out about this life of mine here in Bellevale, the name of Miss Scarlett has come up from time to time as connected with it. I have always shrunk from having you find out just what our—relations—have been, and the whole thing has been dark to me—dark and forbidding. What wrong I—this man Brassfield—may have done her, I can not know without your aid. I must know this, now. If she has been wronged, she shall have reparation, as full as I can give."

"What do you mean," said Madame le Claire—and Elizabeth held her breath—"by full reparation?"

"First let us know the wrong! If that exists, the reparation will be for Miss Scarlett and her advisers to name."

"But they may name the keeping of the promise they say you have made!"

"I have thought that all over."

"But your engagement to——"

"The lady you are about to mention," said Amidon, "must have ceased to care much for me, after what I am told took place the other night; and when she learns of this other disgrace, as she must before she sees me again—if she ever does—it will be all over—for ever—except the wrong to her—for which reparation can never be made. I——"

"Oh, it is too dreadful!" cried Madame le Claire. "And for that worst thing—the other night—I only am to blame! I put into you the character in which you have become weak and drawn aside by suggestions not natural to your own character. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I have never thought of blaming you!" he protested. "You? Why, no one ever had so good a friend; all the chance I have had to win happiness here, you gave me. I have lost that—by misfortune. Now help me to make things as near right as I can. Put me back into the world of Brassfield, and let me know the worst that I—he—has done."

"Coom een!" said the voice of the professor in the corridor. "Coom een! Clara iss not here now: den she must be someveres. Pe bleaced to sit vile I look. Anyhow, she vill soon return. Ach, Herr Cox, ve missed you creatly at our supper—eatings of reasons and sdreams of souls! Ach! Here iss our friendt te chutche, ant Herr Amidon—Brassfield, I mean!"

Madame le Claire appeared in the archway.

"Ah, Miss Scarlett," said she, "you are early. May I ask you to return, in——"

"No!" It was the voice of Miss Scarlett which replied. "No, I'm not going! And if 'Gene Brassfield is in there, Billy Cox has something to say to him. Here, Mr. Alvord, you come in, too; he's out there hunting for 'Gene. Billy, do your duty now!"

"Pardon me," said Mr. Cox, advancing into the next room, followed by Miss Scarlett. "Pardon me, Judge Blodgett, I have a few words for you and your client. Miss Scarlett has made me agree to apologize to Mr. Brassfield about that summons; and if 'Gene Brassfield thinks I owe him any apology for putting it on to him a little before his out-of-town friends, I'll make it. But here are the facts, and he knows it: for four years he's been rawhiding me at every chance with his practical jokes. He had me arrested and detained for a whole day on fake telegrams at Wilkesbarre, only last fall; and just before that he got everybody at the Springs to thinking I was Tascott, and induced a rural constable to take me into custody. Why, Alvord here in his worst estate hasn't been as bad as he's been. If he's lost any opportunity, I don't remember it; and, of course, I've got back once in a while, and may be about even. But everything has been good-natured and brotherly, as ought to be between members of the gang. And, of course, when the cannon-crackers began to go off that night, I knew he was doing it. I was over in Major Pumphrey's parlor, where Daisy had invited me, during the eruption, and I told her about these things, and wished for some way of getting even, and—and some one spoke of this breach of promise suit, and we—that is, I—got up the summons, and I told Ed Tootle to serve it on you at your orgy—you had no business to expect me to enter any free-for-all inebriates' competition—you know that, 'Gene! It may have been a little extreme as a joke; but if you'd laughed it off as you always do, nobody would have thought anything of it except to chaff you about it. But what do you do? You make as serious a thing of it as if you hadn't been trotting with our crowd for five years or so. You set this old—my learned friend from the West—briefing it up, and you make a fool of me. Worse than that, you place Daisy in a most objectionable position; and, by George, 'Gene, I claim the apology is due from you, to me and Daisy!"

That he, Florian Amidon, had ever been guilty of playing such pranks as the ones described by Mr. Cox, seemed incredible; but his sense of relief at the way his burden rolled away in the light of Cox's indignant apology overcame all other sensations. He sprang forward to offer his hand cordially to Mr. Cox.

"I agree with you!" said he. "I do owe you an apology, and I freely offer it. As for the offense I have given Miss Scarlett, I can only say that I have had a very strange mental experience lately, of which my friends here can tell you, or I should never have—never have taken the matter—as I did. I beg you both to forgive me!"

"'Gene," said Miss Scarlett, offering her hand, "I'm too game a sport to go mourning because I lost out, and you ought to have known—I declare, I believe you've been crazy! I told Billy—Billy and I are engaged, now, and are really going to be married—I told Billy how, when we were at the watering-place, I insisted that it seemed a shame not to be engaged, and how we fixed it to be engaged for a week, and it made him furious! But as good a fellow as I've been, the way you took our joke was shabby. You people may know some good excuse, but——"

Madame le Claire was not only a diplomat: she was a strategist. Now, she saw, was the supreme moment in which to complete for Florian the good work she had begun.

"Please excuse Mr. Brassfield," said sha. "He is wanted in the back parlor; come, Mr. Brassfield, give me your arm!"

Through the portiere she swept, bearing Amidon as on wings. There sat Elizabeth, her face bowed down upon her arms, on the back of a sofa. She rose as they entered.

"Elizabeth!" cried Florian. "My darling!"

He stretched out his hands pleadingly, and walked toward her. She shrank back; and Madame le Claire retreated, knowing that the struggle of Amidon's life was before him.

Yet, gentle reader, why should not Amidon win? To us, a thousand things might seem to need explanation; but to Elizabeth, all this separation of Amidon from Brassfield was so new, so little realized, that her love bridged the chasm, and nothing was required except the clearing up of a week or two of curious happenings, most of which had already been so glozed over by Madame le Claire's generous plea, that what girl in love would require any greater price in humble wooing than Florian yearned to pay? Why, mesmerism alone covers all sorts of odd and suspicious doings. The case, for instance, of—— But that is beside the point. The point is, that with half of Brassfield's skill, Amidon will win handsomely. Some scenes ought not to be painted—in this plain and flippant prose. Let us wait, therefore, until the arrival of the voices of Florian and Elizabeth at the pitch of ordinary conversation admonishes us that the prose writer's psychological moment has arrived. Then we may take and transcribe some notes.

"Of course," Florian said, "he must have had some redeeming traits—superficially, or you would never have cared for him——"

"Oh, don't say such things!" she protested. "Your real, real self came uppermost, I am sure, in your behavior to me. You were perfectly lovely, even if you didn't understand me as I wanted you to do—as you do now."

"Dearest!" he whispered. "You never loved him as you do me, did you?"

That little laugh that first charmed him filled the pause.

"Don't say 'him!'" she commanded. "Think of the original absurdity of being jealous of a rival, and that rival yourself! And remember that 'he' was my sweetheart, and for my own sake, don't abuse him. Why, it was you all the time; and I always felt, even at the worst, that hidden in the Brassfield personality was the one man for me in all the world. It was this woman's instinct, that men never believe in, and the girl's eyesight. I look at you, and I know you are the same. Don't slander yourself as you appeared in your other mental clothes. I won't have it—but don't change back, dear!"

"But really," said Elizabeth, "is it necessary for us to live in Bellevale?"

"Would you go away—with me?"

There was a silence here, during which something seemed to take place which removed the necessity of answer; for surely, Elizabeth would not have allowed this question to go unanswered otherwise.

"Oh," said she, "there are more places I want to go, and more things I want to see and study—you never would believe it! It will take years and years."

"Well, why not?" answered Florian. "'Whether in Naishapur or Babylon', I want to go to every one of those places myself—and always have. We won't build that house. We'll have Blodgett stay and look after the closing up of the business here by Stevens. We'll run out home so I can say hail and farewell to Jennie and greet my new nephews and nieces there, and then, ho! for Japan and India and the East, on our way to those high places where you want to erect your idolatrous altars. Elizabeth! Do you realize what a Paradise we're planning?"

"There!" she said quaveringly. "I knew it was too perfect to be true, and that we'd find some obstacle, and I've found it! That miserable office you'll have to fill!"

Chillingly the wet blanket descended on their fervid joy, and they looked at each other in consternation. This public call on Mr. Brassfield now became an incubus to Mr. Amidon, pinning him to earth as he essayed to rise and fly. Gradually, as he looked fondly in his lady-love's face, the hope dawned in his heart that perhaps her desire that he should have a "career" might not be much greater than his.

"Dear," said he at last, "would you feel very sorely disappointed if we were to give it up—the state and national capital life, and all that?"

"I disappointed!" exclaimed she. "Why, could you bring yourself to give them up? I hate to say it—but—I just detest the whole thing!"

"So do I!" said Amidon.

They wondered in the next room what could have excited so much hilarity.

"What a beginning!" said Elizabeth. "To start out in our life with such a mutual deception! But I wanted to have a part in your life, whatever it might be; and I could organize Primrose Leagues, and succeed in them, if it were necessary to help in any ambition of yours. So there! Oh, it was silly to write in that way—but you really seemed at that time——"

"I never did, my dear! It was that Brassfield; and when I was caught and restored by Madame le Claire, I should have declined if it hadn't been for the—the Washington career, you know——"

"Oh, please don't say any more——"

"And I had Blodgett get up a letter of withdrawal——"

"Do you suppose he has it yet?" she cried.

"'Letter of withdrawal!' It sounds so sort of parliamentary and correct and comforting!"

"It does," agreed Amidon, "especially in view of the fact that I believe I'm beaten anyhow. Judge Blodgett thinks I am, and Mr. Alvord——"

"Poor Jim Alvord!" interposed Elizabeth. "His wife says he would desert his family for you."

"For Brassfield, she means," said Amidon. "It is really not the same thing, dear. But I was saying that even he half confesses defeat. I've made an awful mess of this thing, Elizabeth, on account of not really knowing anything of the people or their opinions or desires. Even that platform of ours couldn't pull us through. No wisdom—and I haven't much—could keep a man from making blunders when he went out to do things for himself, knowing nothing of the situation except what he got from his inner consciousness, and from what he was told. A political situation is too delicately balanced for that. If I had done nothing, I should have remained undeservedly popular and reaped the reward of Brassfield's cunning and hypocrisy—don't stop me, please! But you and I tried to impose righteousness on the people from the outside and above. It never comes in that way, but always from the inside and below, like lilies from the mud. I'm really a most unpopular man, opposed by most of the 'good citizens' and all of the bad except a few who still believe me dishonest, and will desert me as soon as their fellows can convince them that I'm sincere—isn't it a pretty plot! Facing defeat because of my advocacy of principles everybody concedes to be right, because I'm suspected of an actual intention to act according to my platform pledge; when that man Brassfield, who was preparing to carry out a policy of selfish spoliation, could have carried every precinct!"

"It does me so much good," she said, "to see you in such a glow of indignation, that I allowed you to go on with that unjust condemnation of my Eugene. Well, then, it seems my noble platform actually ruined you. How nasty of the people! Can't we elope—run away—and never come back, or look at a paper or think of it again? Or shall we use Judge Blodgett's letter of withdrawal—bless him!"

Something—perhaps it was the elopement proposal—induced eventualities which delayed the conversation again for some minutes.

"Let's go out," said she, "and ask him to—to do whatever they do with letters of withdrawal—at once!"

The room into which Amidon led the shy Elizabeth had been a clearing-house of confused ideas during their long tete-a-tete. Madame le Claire had explained the mystery of dual personality as well as it can be explained, with some comment on the fact that such things happen to people occasionally, no one knows why. Alvord and Judge Blodgett agreed that the candidate for mayor should be withdrawn. Alvord even raised the question as to whether, the nomination papers being issued to Brassfield, Amidon could be legally elected. Judge Blodgett said it raised the finest legal question he ever had encountered, and if carried up would be a case of first impression in the world's jurisprudence. Alvord assented to this without argument.

Then Le Claire told them of Amidon's life in his old home as she had learned of it, of his bewildered application to her in New York, and how he had been helped. She was a long time telling it, and all the while she was thinking of the tender things happening in the next room. She heard the murmuring of their voices, as full of meaning as the flutings of mating birds. And she faltered and stopped.

"Papa, papa!" she cried, "help me out! Tell them the rest."

"You vill vonder, berhaps," said the professor, "at sairtain egsentricities of gonduct of our friendt, in his later Brassfield phace, in vitch he has shown de kvality of sportiness—or sportif—vat iss de vort?"

"Sportiness," said Miss Scarlett, "is the word."

"T'anks!" said the professor. "Vell, de egsblanation is dus: te Brassfield state vas vun of gontinuous self-hypnotismus. It iss apnormal. Its shief garacteristic is suchestibility. Now, if ve find dat te supchect hass been frown into de society of people of—vat you gall?—sporty tendencies, he vould gradually yield to te suchestion of dese tendencies. He vould——"

"I am glad I heard that," said Elizabeth. "We must not allow you to return to this abnormal state!"

"Mr. Cox," said Judge Blodgett, "do we need a detective to run this sporty influence down? or shall we look among the Christian Martyrs?"

"It will relieve me," said Miss Scarlett, hugging Mr. Cox's arm, "if you won't look. I'm afraid to be searched!"

Elizabeth and Florian appeared in the archway. Her eyes were shining with the soft radiance which, like the flush of dawn, comes only once in the day's journey, and never returns. His sought her face in a worship that she would never have seen had Eugene Brassfield looked out from them.

"I am taking Miss Waldron home," said Mr. Amidon. "Matters have just taken such a turn that I shall leave soon for my former home in Wisconsin, where I have large interests, and I may not be able to return. Such being the case, we do not feel that it would be just to the people of this city to continue in the position of a candidate for public office, and—pshaw! why not be honest? We're beaten, and we don't want the office, anyhow. Judge, have you that letter of withdrawal convenient?"



"I have," said the judge. "I figured all the time that you'd need it."

"Thanks!" said Amidon. "Take it, Mr. Alvord, and give it to the world at large. You understand, do you not, the peculiar change of personality which makes it improper——?"

"Sure," said Alvord. "The man who put out that platform of ours can't afford to be caught short-changing the public by switching candidates on them on the eve of election. And right here let me say, that be it Amidon or Brassfield, the ties of brotherhood still hold with Jim Alvord, in F. D. and B., and I hate to use this letter. I believe still we could pull through, with proper management from now on, and, confound it! I'd rather be licked with you than to win with any other man on earth!"

"In all phases of my life," said Amidon, grasping the little man's hand warmly, "I'm going to take the liberty of holding you as my friend. I know faithfulness and unselfishness when I see it, no matter if I don't quite fall in with its methods."

Alvord's eyes filled, as his emotions rose with the parting. Yet he could not allow his methods to be questioned even by implication.

"Well, now, as to methods," he began, "theoretically you may be right about publicity and that platform, but practically—well, let's forget it! But, 'Gene—or whatever your damned name is!—don't forget me! Good-by!"

The judge, the professor, Miss Scarlett, and all the rest had gone on their various ways, and Madame le Claire was in one of the inner rooms attended by Aaron, whom she had summoned.

"I'm not going to adopt poor Jim's language yet," said Elizabeth, when she and Florian were again left alone. "'Florian, Florian!'—I like that name. But think how hard it was to learn to call you 'Eugene.' Do you remember where we were when I first called you that?"

"Don't you realize, dearie," said he, "that I know nothing of all that? And except for your sweet letter, I knew nothing of you before that day when I came from New York?"

"O——h!" she cried. "And all the lovely things you did to win me—— Oh, dear, I never thought of that. And you remember nothing—nothing at all? Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful! No wonder I almost hated you that night!"

He put his arm about her and kissed her lingeringly.

"Dearest! Sweetheart!" he said. "The loss is all mine! And to make up for it, you must let me do them all over again—every one, a thousand times. Come, let us go!"

At the door, she stopped and turned back.

"I must see Madame le Claire," said she.

Already the rooms were filled with the disorder of packing, and Aaron was busy preparing for one of their Arab-like flittings. Madame le Claire stood looking down into the street.

"Are you leaving Bellevale?" said Miss Waldron.

"On the next train," answered the hypnotist. "Our tour has been a long time delayed."

"I hope," said Elizabeth, "that we shall see you again some time."

"It is quite probable," said Clara. "We are wanderers, and public characters. Almost everybody sees us from time to time—if they desire."

"I'm not going to leave you this way," said Elizabeth, with hurried obscurity of expression. "You have done for me more—much more—than—than I can say; but you know, you know!"

"I know you would do as much for me!"

"No, no!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "I never would. I'm not good enough. I'm going away now, to be very, very happy, and I want you to see—to know—how I feel toward you—oh, oh, I can't say what I mean! But some time, when you get settled down from the agitations we've had, after a long time, write and tell me that you're happy, won't you?"

She had put her arm around the slender waist, and faced Madame le Claire, gazing at her intently. Le Claire kissed her forehead, and looked long, with the varicolored eyes, into those of Elizabeth. She seemed to speak in that way, as an easier mode of communication at this time than by the words which would not come in any adequate form. So the two girls stood as Professor Blatherwick came in and noticed the labors of Aaron.

"Packing, Clara?" said he. "Vell, vere shall ve vork te hypot'esis ant te bublic next? I shall pe glad vunce more to hit te pike. Dis gase, vile supliminally great stuff, is pretty vell vorked out: not?"

"Quite worked out," said Clara, "to the end; indeed, indeed, it is completely worked out!"

Elizabeth's arm tightened about her waist, and Elizabeth's breath was caught in a quick little sigh. Madame le Claire replied to these inarticulate expressions of sympathy as if they had been words.

"Don't think that!" said she, looking Elizabeth again steadily in the face. "Don't let that haunt your mind in this new life of yours; for it will not be so. Let us be friends though we never meet. Yes, I will write to you; but it will not be necessary. Whenever you think of me, this is what you will think, because I command it: 'She is busy with her wandering life. New things are dimming the memory of me—and mine. She has found the love her soul covets. She is happy!'"

THE END