loor; "them things ought to be
kep' private."

"Mad, of course, that's to say imbecile," repeated the rubicund man.

"Horrid head he'd got," said the failure, and shivered histrionically.

They continued to demonstrate their contempt for the infant by many
asseverations. The reaction grew. They were all bold now, and all wanted
to speak. They spoke as the survivors from some common peril; they were
increasingly anxious to demonstrate that they had never suffered
intimidation, and in their relief they were anxious to laugh at the
thing which had for a time subdued them. But they never named it as a
cause for fear. Their speech was merely innuendo.

At the last, however, I caught an echo of the true feeling.

It was the rubicund man who, most daring during the crisis, was now bold
enough to admit curiosity.

"What's your opinion, sir?" he said to me. The train was running into
Wenderby; he was preparing to get out; he leaned forward, his fingers on
the handle of the door.

I was embarrassed. Why had I been singled out by the child? I had taken
no part in the recent interjectory conversation. Was this a consequence
of the notice that had been paid to me?

"I?" I stammered, and then reverted to the rubicund man's original
phrase, "It--it was certainly a very remarkable child," I said.

The rubicund man nodded and pursed his lips. "Very," he muttered as he
alighted, "Very remarkable. Well, good day to you."

I returned to my book, and was surprised to find that my index finger
was still marking the place at which I had been interrupted some fifteen
minutes before. My arm felt stiff and cramped.

I read: "... and if this ray be removed, the bare direction or the empty
place would alone be indicated."

CHAPTER II

NOTES FOR A BIOGRAPHY OF GINGER STOTT

I

Ginger Stott is a name that was once as well known as any in England.
Stott has been the subject of leading articles in every daily paper; his
life has been written by an able journalist who interviewed Stott
himself, during ten crowded minutes, and filled three hundred pages with
details, seventy per cent. of which were taken from the journals, and
the remainder supplied by a brilliant imagination. Ten years ago Ginger
Stott was on a pinnacle, there was a Stott vogue. You found his name at
the bottom of signed articles written by members of the editorial staff;
you bought Stott collars, although Stott himself did not wear collars;
there was a Stott