mean?"

"From----" began the old woman in timid hesitation, then in a rush of
courage: "From my little girl. From Anne Marie."

"No!" he snapped. "Of course not. I----"

"But--at a time like this--if she knows--oh, I felt it,--I hoped--that
there would be _some_ message from her! Every day I have hoped----"

"No," he broke in. "Nothing's come. No letter. No word of any sort from
her. I'd have let you know if there had. By the way, I have an
appointment at the hotel in a few minutes. Tell Miss Kathrien, if she
asks for me."

He busied himself with the tray. Marta looked at him a moment longer,
held by some power that she could not explain. Then years of habit
overcame impulse. She courtesied and withdrew to her kitchen.

As the door shut behind her, Frederik caught up the torn blue letter.
Tossing it in a metal ash tray he struck a match. Peter Grimm, divining
his intent, sprang forward with a wordless cry to stop him. The Dead
Man's hands tore at the wrists of the Living; sought by main strength to
snatch the paper out of his reach; with pitiful helplessness tried to
thrust back the hand that held the lighted match.

Unknowingly, Frederik touched the flame to the paper, shook out the
match, and watched the torn letter blaze and curl. Then he tossed the
charred bits into a jardiniere on the floor, and picked up the picture.

"There's an end to _that_!" he murmured, turning to throw the photograph
into the smoking embers of the fireplace.

Peter Grimm stood erect. A new hope drove the sick despair from his
face. Looking toward Willem's room he raised his arm and beckoned.

At once the door stealthily opened. A white little figure slipped out
onto the gallery and toward the stairs. Down the flight of steps, clad
in his white flannel pajama suit, his eyes wide, his yellow hair
tumbled, Willem ran.

Frederik, in the act of consigning the photograph to the fire, was
arrested by the sound of pattering feet. Laying the picture on the desk,
he turned guiltily, in time to see Willem speeding across the room
toward the bay window.

"What are you doing down here?" demanded Frederik. "If you're so sick,
you ought not to get out of bed. That's the place for sick boys."

"The circus!" mumbled Willem in the queer, strained voice of a sleep
walker. "The circus music waked me up. So I had to come and hear it."

"Circus music?" repeated Frederik amazedly, as he watched the boy
tugging at the rain-tightened window sash to