or an autograph in return. I
received one of these only a few days ago, and I want you to read it."
Warrington produced the missive and tossed it into Bennington's hands.
"Read that. It's worth while to get a letter like that one."

Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his friend's enthusiasm. A
single glance at the graceful script, however, changed his expression.
He sat back and stared at Warrington.

"What's the matter?"

Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading
carefully and slowly. He did not look for any signature, for he knew
there would be none. He returned the letter, his face sober, but his
eyes dancing.

"Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Don't tell me there isn't any romance in the world. But, hang it,
Jack, I'm not worth a letter like that," earnestly.

"Of course not."

"I'm not jesting. I've sown wild oats, and God knows what the harvest
will be. There's a law that exacts payment. Retribution is the only
certain thing in this world."

"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is
jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, Dick; I'm not worrying
about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you
can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are
unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave
you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome--like
yourself."

"I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You
can't keep to a course without a compass. The real good in life, the
good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I
love nobody, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began
to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd
give a good deal to meet this writer."

"Doubtless you will find her charming."

Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know
is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you
to do anything without a definite purpose."

"That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The
truth is--" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the
desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair
of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his
hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe
Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is,