ked directly out of the
picture and into Roger's eyes. It was the most living picture he had
ever seen. The lips were parted as if for speech, there was a smile
behind the widely opened eyes. And both face and form were beautiful.

The doctor straightened up with a sharply drawn breath. It seemed that
something had happened. For one flashing instant some inner knowledge
had linked him with his own unlived experience. It was gone as soon as
it came. He did not even realize it, save as a sense of strangeness.
Yet, as a chemist lifts a vial and drops the one drop which changes all
within his crucible, so some magic philtre tinged John Roger's cup of
life in that one stolen look.

"Have you found anything?" Aunt Caroline's voice came impatiently.

"Nothing."

But to himself he added "everything" for indeed the mystery of Benis
seemed a mystery no longer. The photograph made everything clear. And
yet not so clear, either. The doctor looked around at the ship-shape
bachelorness of the tent, at the neat pile of newly typed manuscript
upon the bed, and felt bewildered. Even the eccentricity of Benis, in
its most extravagant mode, seemed inadequate as a covering explanation.

Giving himself a mental shake, the intruder picked up the largest chair
and rejoined Aunt Caroline.

"It's Benis right enough," he announced. "He is probably off
interviewing Indians. I had better light a fire. It may break the news."

CHAPTER XVI

We left the professor somewhat abruptly in the midst of a cryptic
ejaculation of "My Aunt!"

"How can it be your Aunt?" asked Desire reasonably.

"I don't know how. But, owing to some mysterious combination of the
forces of nature, it is my Aunt. No one else could wear that hat."

"Then hadn't we better go to meet her? You can't sit here all night."

"I know I can't. It's too near. We didn't see her soon enough!"

"Cowardly custard!" said Desire, stamping her foot.

The professor's mild eyes blinked at her in surprise. "Good!" he said
with satisfaction. "That is the first remark suitable to your extreme
youth that I've ever heard you make. But the sentiment it implies is
all wrong. Physical courage, as such, is mere waste when opposed to my
Aunt. What is wanted is technique. Technique requires thought. Thought
requires leisure. That is why I am sitting here behind a boulder--what
is she doing now?"

Desire investigated.

"She is walking up and down."

"A bad sign. It doesn't leave us mu