ject in entering Alfred Fluette's study, therefore, was
prompted by a hope that I might absorb something of its atmosphere. I
did not know the man. Here was the place where he spent his leisure
hours, where he unbent and became his normal self. It were indeed
strange if I failed to gain some concept of his character.

I leaned against a window-casing, and surveyed the room with much
interest. From the appearance of the books on the shelves--they were
worn from use, but their coating of dust evidenced neglect--I gathered
the idea that the master of the house had once been a bookish man, but
that of late he had grown away from such pursuits. Here and there on
the wide-topped writing-table were letters and papers in neat piles,
while other letters and papers were heaped up and scattered about in
the most careless disorder. The ink-well and blotting-pad were
scrupulously tidy, but he never troubled to clean his pens after using
them, or even to place them in the pen receiver.

To me, all this argued a man whose moral forces were undergoing a slow
but certain deterioration; and with a man in Alfred Fluette's position,
and with his responsibilities, the possibilities were manifold and
ominous. His conscience still had a voice to raise in protest against
meddling with his niece's heritage; but he remained deaf to the voice.
He could stoop to villainy; but he was not so callous to wrongdoing but
that the stooping hurt. Alfred Fluette needed a jolt--somebody to
bring him up with a short turn--and I resolved, having the means, to be
the one to do it.

As my glance roved hither and thither about the room, it was suddenly
arrested and held.

On the writing-table, among a thousand and one odds and ends, was a
memorandum calendar. It was in nowise different from scores of other
calendars; the date displayed was to-day's, and in the blank space
below, written in a large, firm handy appeared a notation.

But this memorandum contained a most peculiar word. Somehow, as my eye
encountered it, a thrill ran through me. I could not define it; the
thrill was without perceptible meaning, but I felt that the odd word
should tell me something. The word was so odd, in fact, that I feared
I could not remember it. So I copied it upon the back of an envelope,
thus:

TSHEN-BYO-YEN.

Immediately under it had been written: "10 o'clock."

Further speculation on the matter was interrupted by Genevieve coming
down-stairs. I stepp