as centered on the figure of a funny little man whose troubled
eyes peered out from behind a huge pair of shell-rimmed glasses as he
stood beside the goddess, hesitant, his hand stretched out to loose the
bandage from the eyes of Justice.

The vision faded until only the funny little man was left. The watcher
on high saw him turn and enter the house, calm and composed, putting
two telegrams and a notebook into his pocket as he walked the length of
the hall and into the pantry. His voice was placid when he spoke.

"Bates, fix me up a couple of sandwiches and a flask of black coffee.
I've been a bit seedy lately and I'm going to try the effects of a long
walk. I may not be back until quite late."

"Yes, sir. I'll have them in a few minutes, sir."

After an interminable wait of centuries, a neat package was forthcoming
and he was at length able to leave the house and plunge into the woods,
his destination the little cave in the hills where he and Miss Ocky had
shared their picnic lunch. There he could be alone, secure from
interruption, while two little devils, devised for the torment of man,
donned the gloves and staged in the squared circle of his heart the
age-old battle between love and duty.

It was a memorable fight, that. Love went down for the count of nine
more than once, but more often it was the ugly little demon of duty
that the end of a round left hanging on the ropes. Not until dusk had
fallen was the referee able to hold up the arm of the victor.

It was ten o'clock when he limped wearily into the quiet house and
slipped noiselessly to his room. His first glance was for his desk,
where telegrams might be found if any had come. There were none, but a
large white envelope, sealed but unaddressed, lay on the blotting-pad.
He took it up and ripped it open. Two letters, stamped and ready for
mailing, fell on the desk. He stared at them indifferently, then
picked them up and thrust them in his pocket.

He sat down, determined to act while his decision was fresh, and drew
writing materials toward him. It was a very simple note that he
intended to write, and it was just that when he finally finished it,
but six false starts lay in the trash-basket beside his desk. He read
over the completed product.

"_My dear Mr. Bolt--Pressure of business recalls me to New York early
to-morrow morning before I can have an opportunity to see you. I am
happy to say that Mr. Varr's notebook has been recovered,