leather-bound book with the
word "Diary" stamped in gold across its top cover.

A diary! Why in thunder did people keep 'em? Ocky had got the habit
from keeping notes for her books, he supposed. Silly things, always
getting their owners into trouble! He glared at the innocent book a
full minute before he reluctantly opened it and sought the entries for
the past few weeks. There were not many, thank goodness; she was not a
faithful diarist. He scanned them rapidly, gathering courage as it
grew plain that there was nothing here the whole world might not read.
Then he caught his breath and stood transfixed as one entry, dated
three days back, sped its message to his brain.

"The usual talk with P. C. last night from balcony to balcony. He is
amusing and very entertaining--amazingly kind and sympathetic despite
his profession, which must tend to harden a man--though he will not
admit it!" So much was in her bold, firm writing, but underneath a
line had been added in fainter, more uncertain script. "Why couldn't
we have met twenty years ago!"

Creighton shut the book quickly, flicked off his torch, stood
motionless in the dark. His breast was a chaos of wild, conflicting
emotions. There was rejoicing at what he had found, loathing for the
way he had found it, terror of the problems it portended. That
regretful line in her diary revealed some feeling for him, he felt
sure, but what would become of that newborn sentiment when she learned
that he had--

The raucous blare of a motor-horn from the direction of the driveway
cut sharply through his abstraction. He leaped for the door and gained
the hall in safety, then sauntered downstairs to find not one arrival
but two. Miss Ocky had returned ahead of schedule, and a messenger on
a motorcycle had come with a telegram.

"Telegram for Creighton."

"Right here." He scrawled a signature in the book, opened the wire and
read it by his flash-light. "No answer."

He read it again as the boy putt-putted off into the darkness.

"_We leave for Montreal to-night. Cheers. Can I have one on you?
Address General Delivery, Montreal. K. Doyle._"

He struck a match and held it to the corner of the yellow sheet. By
the time it was burned and the charred fragments crunched beneath his
heel, Miss Ocky had garaged the car and come around to the front steps.

"Hello," she said, rather wearily. "Never dreamed you'd be back
already!"

"Couldn't stay away," he said