ld it be made now that renovation and repairs of all
kinds were necessary? Time finally answered me. My secret was safe
and likely to continue so, and this fact once settled, life became
endurable, if not cheerful. Since then I have spent only two nights out
of this house, and they were unavoidable. When my grandfather died I had
the wainscot door cemented in. It was done from this side and the
cement painted to match the wood. No one opened the door nor have I
ever crossed its threshold. Sometimes I think I have been foolish; and
sometimes I know that I have been very wise. My reason has stood firm;
how do I know that it would have done so if I had subjected myself to
the possible discovery that one of both of them might have been saved if
I had disclosed instead of concealed my adventure."

A pause during which white horror had shone on every face; then with a
final glance at Violet, he said:

"What sequel do you see to this story, Miss Strange? I can tell the
past, I leave you to picture the future."

Rising, she let her eye travel from face to face till it rested on the
one awaiting it, when she answered dreamily:

"If some morning in the news column there should appear an account of
the ancient and historic home of the Van Broecklyns having burned to the
ground in the night, the whole country would mourn, and the city feel
defrauded of one of its treasures. But there are five persons who would
see in it the sequel which you ask for."

When this happened, as it did happen, some few weeks later, the
astonishing discovery was made that no insurance had been put upon this
house. Why was it that after such a loss Mr. Van Broecklyn seemed to
renew his youth? It was a constant source of comment among his friends.

END OF PROBLEM VIII

PROBLEM IX. VIOLET'S OWN

"It has been too much for you?"

"I am afraid so."

It was Roger Upjohn who had asked the question; it was Violet who
answered. They had withdrawn from a crowd of dancers to a balcony,
half-shaded, half open to the moon,--a balcony made, it would seem, for
just such stolen interviews between waltzes.

Now, as it happened, Roger's face was in the shadow, but Violet's in the
full light. Very sweet it looked, very ethereal, but also a little wan.
He noticed this and impetuously cried:

"You are pale; and your hand! see, how it trembles!"

Slowly withdrawing it from the rail where it had rested, she sent one
quick glance his way and, in a low voice