tone-cutters, he is reading straight through Bromley's shelf of
bird-books. He may be absorbing 'local color,' but if he is, he is
letting the environment do all the work. I don't believe he has had a
consciously active idea since he began loafing with us."

"You are mistaken--greatly mistaken," was all she would say; and in the
fulness of time a day came when the event proved how far a woman's
intuition may outrun a man's reasoning.

It was the occasion of Bromley's first return to the camp at Elbow
Canyon, four full weeks after the night of stumbling on the steep path.
Young Blacklock had driven him by the roundabout road in the little
motor-car; and the camp industries paused while the men gave the "Little
Boss" an enthusiastic ovation. Afterward, the convalescent was glad
enough to lie down on the makeshift lounge in the office bungalow; but
when Jerry would have driven him back in time for luncheon at Castle
'Cadia, as his strict orders from Miss Elsa ran, Bromley begged to be
allowed to put his feet under the office mess-table with his chief and
his volunteer chauffeur.

To the three, doing justice to the best that Garou could find in the
camp commissary stores, came Mr. Lester Wingfield, to drag up a stool
and to make himself companionably at home at the engineers' mess, as his
custom had come to be. Until the meal was ended and the pipes were
filled, he was silent and abstracted to the edge of rudeness. But when
Ballard made a move to go down to the railroad yard with Fitzpatrick,
the spell was broken.

"Hold up a minute; don't rush off so frantically," he cut in abruptly.
"I have been waiting for many days to get you and Bromley together for a
little confidential confab about matters and things, and the time has
come. Sit down."

Ballard resumed his seat at the table with an air of predetermined
patience, and the playwright nodded approval. "That's right," he went
on, "brace yourself to take it as it comes; but you needn't write your
reluctance so plainly in your face. It's understood."

"I don't know what you mean," objected Ballard, not quite truthfully.

Wingfield laughed.

"You didn't want me to come down here at first; and since I've been
coming you haven't been too excitedly glad to see me. But that's all
right, too. It's what the public benefactor usually gets for butting in.
Just the same, there is a thing to be done, and I've got to do it. I may
bore you both in the process, but I have reached