and I feel deeply indebted to you for what you have
done. But what does it all amount to? What interest do I take in
trouble along the docks, a fight between a couple of toughs in some
dark alley, or a fashionable wedding in one of the big churches? Bah!
I am sick of them all, and the sooner I get away the better."

Reynolds produced a cigarette, lighted it and threw the match upon the
floor. From the corner of his eye he watched the editor as he toyed
thoughtfully with his pen. This man was nearer to him than anyone else
in the world, and he was afraid that he had annoyed him by his plain
outspoken words.

"And you say you have nothing in view?" the editor at length enquired.

"Nothing. Can you suggest anything? Something that will tax all my
energy of mind and body. That is what I want. I hope you do not
misunderstand me, sir. I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you
have done."

"I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your
age, I might feel the same. But what about your painting? Have you
lost all interest in that? When you were in France you often wrote
what impressions you were getting, and how much you intended to do when
you came home."

"I have done very little at that, and the sketches I made are still
uncompleted. Some day I may do something, but not now."

"You certainly have lost all interest, Tom, in the things that once
gave you so much pleasure."

"It is only too true, although I have honestly tried to return to the
old ways. But I must have a fling at something else to get this
restless feeling out of my system. What do you suggest! Perhaps it is
only a thrashing I need. That does children good sometimes."

The editor smiled as he pulled out a drawer in his desk, and brought
forth a fair-sized scrapbook. He slowly turned the pages and stopped
at length where a large newspaper clipping had been carefully pasted.

"I do not think you need a thrashing, Tom," he began. "But I believe I
can suggest something better than that. Here is an entry I made in
this book over fifteen years ago, and the story it contains appeals
strongly to me now. I read it at least once a year, and it has been
the cause of many a day-dream to me, and night-dream as well, for that
matter. Did you ever hear of the mysterious disappearance of Henry
Redmond, the wealthy merchant of this city? But I suppose not, as you
were young at the time."

"No, I never heard of him," Re