e to diagnose it. He merely
resented it as a grievance added to the supreme grievance based on the
fact that he had not yet even started on the high adventure he had
promised himself.

He was gloomily considering both grievances, and tying his tie with his
usual care, when something in the mirror caught and held his attention.
He looked at it, at first casually, then with growing interest. In the
glass, directly facing him, was a wide studio window. It was open,
notwithstanding the cold January weather, and a comfortable,
middle-aged, plump woman, evidently a superior type of caretaker, was
sitting on the sill, polishing an inner pane. The scene was as vivid as
a mirage, and it was like the mirage in that it was projected from some
point which itself remained unseen.

Laurie turned to the one window the dressing-room afforded--a double
French window, at his right, but a little behind him, and reaching to
the floor. Through this he could see across a court the opposite side of
his own building, but no such window or commonplace vision as had just
come to him. In his absorption in the phenomenon he called to Bangs, who
rose slowly, and, coming to his side, regarded the scene without much
interest.

"It's a cross projection from a house diagonally opposite us," he said,
after studying the picture a moment. "It must be that old red studio
building on the southwest corner of the square. If we had a room back of
this and looking toward the west, we could see the real window."

"As it is," said Laurie, "we've got a reserved seat for an intimate
study of any one who lives there. I wonder who has that studio?"

Bangs had no idea. He was grateful to the little episode, however, for
spreading over the yielding ground beneath his feet the solid strip on
which he had crossed back to his chum. He threw an arm across Laurie's
shoulders and looked into his face, with something in his expression
that reminded young Devon of a favorite collie he had loved and lost in
boyhood.

"All right now?" the look asked, just as the dog's look had asked it of
the little chap of ten, when something had gone wrong. Rodney's creed of
life was held together by a few primitive laws, the first of which was
loyalty. Already he was reproaching himself for what he had said and
done. Laurie carefully completed the tying of his tie, and turned to him
with his gayest smile.

"Hurry up and finish dressing," he cheerfully suggested, "and we'll go
out to