and harmonious quiet of the room. His
eyes, with a little gleam in them, roamed comfortably into every corner.
"It's worth being laid up to get a taste of this," he cried naively.
"You see, I've never seen anything just like this," he added, almost
apologetically, with the little deprecatory lift of his hands that had
already fastened itself upon Roger as characteristic. "It's too good to
be true!"

For a moment Roger was silent at this display of ingenuousness. Then he
spoke as he would have expected to be spoken to, had their positions
been reversed.

"I'll send in for your clothes--and things--if you'll give me your
address...."

The tall man's expression of content faded. It was succeeded by a look
of what might be taken for pain, or embarrassment,--or both.

"They're all here," he said quietly. "It wouldn't be worth while to send
after a toothbrush and a comb, would it. That's all there is--home."

"Oh--I beg your pardon," said Roger, reddening. Then he cursed himself
for the tactlessness of the apology.

"Nothing to blush at, my boy," cried Good. "Lend me a suit of pajamas,
instead."

Roger rose hastily. He welcomed the opportunity to escape from this
curious creature, who said such curious things, and who possessed but
one suit of clothes. As very rarely happened, he found himself at a loss
for words.

"Can I do anything else?" he asked from the doorway.

"Yes--you can thank your sister--from the bottom of my heart--for having
introduced me to her motor-car ... and _this_--" he waved his hand
around comprehensively, and smiled.

"Anything else?"

"Well, you might call up _The World_ and tell them that I won't be down
to-morrow. You might add that I fell down on the Wynrod story ... that
I'm in the camps of the Persians."

Then, when Roger looked puzzled, he yawned luxuriously and stretched his
arms over his head. And after another yawn, he closed his eyes.

"That's all, thanks. Tell 'em not to wake me--for a week...."

CHAPTER II

A BLOW--AND A RESOLUTION

I

It was after ten o'clock on the evening of the same day. Judith was
thankful when a change at one of the tables gave her an opportunity to
steal away. It was the same old routine, the same interminable bridge,
the same familiar group, even including Faxon and Della Baker who, by a
coincidence that had called forth little veiled ironies, had returned by
the same late afternoon train. Judith wondered at herself. The life she
l