rows and kept the same on hand or in hiding, till he could mate
it with the bow. My dreams showed me this picture:

"A man with a predominating interest in sport, but otherwise active in
business, correct in his dealings and respectable in private life, sees
and frequently handles weapons of ancient and modern make which rouse his
interest and awaken the longing, common to such men, to test his skill in
their use. Sometimes it is a sword, which he twirls vigorously in sly
corners. Again, it is a bow calling for a yeoman's strength to pull. He
is a man of sense and for a long time goes no further than the play I
have just indicated. Perhaps he has no temptation to go further until one
unfortunate day he comes upon an idle bow, rotting away in the cellar."

Here Mr. Gryce looked sharply up--a proof of awakened interest which
Sweetwater did not heed. Possibly he was not expected to. At all events
he continued rapidly:

"It was a fine, strong bow, a typical one from the plains. He took it
up--examined it closely--noted a slight defect in it somewhere--and put
it back. But he did not forget it. Before many days had passed, he goes
down cellar again and brings it up and stands it on end in--where do you
think, sir?--in the closet of the Curator's office!"

"How did you learn that?"

"From the woman who comes every day to wipe up the floors. I happened to
think she might have something worth while to tell us, so I hunted her
up----"

"Go on, boy. Another long mark in your favor."

"Thank you, sir. I'm relating a dream, you know. He stands it on end then
in this closet into which nobody is supposed to go but the Curator _and_
the scrubwoman, and there he leaves it, possibly as yet with no definite
intention. How long it stood there I cannot say. It was well hidden, it
seems, by something or other hanging over it. Nor am I altogether sure
that it might not be standing there yet if the impulse swaying X had not
been strengthened by seeing daily over his head a quiver full of arrows
admirably fitted for this bow. Time has no place in dreams, or I might be
able to state the day and the hour when he stood looking at the ring of
keys lying on the Curator's desk, and struck with what it might do for
him, singled out one of the keys which he placed in the keyhole of a door
opening upon a certain little iron staircase. He was alone, but he
stopped to listen before turning that key. I can see him, can't you? His
air is a guilty on