lved. Also she had called him Peter.

Also he had said he was not in love with her. Was he so sure of that?

At midnight, just as Peter, rolled in the bedclothing, had managed to
warm the cold concavity of his bed and had dozed off, Anna Gates knocked
at his door.

"Yes?" said Peter, still comfortably asleep.

"It is Dr. Gates."

"Sorry, Doctor--have to 'xcuse me," mumbled Peter from the blanket.

"Peter!"

Peter roused to a chilled and indignant consciousness and sat up in bed.

"Well?"

"Open the door just a crack."

Resignedly Peter crawled out of bed, carefully turning the coverings up
to retain as much heat as possible. An icy blast from the open window
blew round him, setting everything movable in the little room to
quivering. He fumbled in the dark for his slippers, failed to find them,
and yawning noisily went to the door.

Anna Gates, with a candle, was outside. Her short, graying hair was out
of its hard knot, and hung in an equally uncompromising six-inch plait
down her back. She had no glasses, and over the candle-frame she peered
shortsightedly at Peter.

"It's about Jimmy," she said. "I don't know what's got into me, but I've
forgotten for three days. It's a good bit more than time for a letter."

"Great Scott!"

"Both yesterday and to-day he asked for it and to-day he fretted a
little. The nurse found him crying."

"The poor little devil!" said Peter contritely. "Overdue, is it? I'll
fix it to-night."

"Leave it under the door where I can get it in the morning. I'm off at
seven."

"The envelope?"

"Here it is. And take my candle. I'm going to bed."

That was at midnight or shortly after. Half after one struck from the
twin clocks of the Votivkirche and echoed from the Stephansplatz across
the city. It found Peter with the window closed, sitting up in bed, a
candle balanced on one knee, a writing-tablet on the other.

He was writing a spirited narrative of a chamois hunt in which he had
taken part that day, including a detailed description of the quarry,
which weighed, according to Peter, two hundred and fifty pounds, Peter
being strong on imagination and short on facts as regards the Alpine
chamois. Then, trying to read the letter from a small boy's point of
view and deciding that it lacked snap, he added by way of postscript a
harrowing incident of avalanche, rope, guide, and ice axe. He ended in a
sort of glow of authorship, and after some thought took fifty pounds off
the cha