this
is a short cut for me. I hope you will excuse my trespassing. I live
just back of here," he went on, in an explanatory way, as she made no
reply. "My name is Manton."

"Oh!" Mabel exclaimed, remembering Galusha Krinklebottom's story of the
young man who was "not right," and concluding that this must be he. "I
am sure there can be no objection to your taking this way to the beach,
Mr. Manton," she answered, smiling sweetly, in the hope of averting a
possible outbreak of lunacy.

He thanked her with a grave, formal bow, and started to pass on, when
his eye fell upon the recently-arrived photograph as it lay on a rock by
her side. He stopped, and looked quickly from it to her face and then
back at the picture.

Mabel's face grew scarlet. Could it be that he recognized it? Was her
secret discovered? Or was this merely a madman's strange idiosyncrasy?

"We have a mutual friend, I think," he said, rather bluntly, though in a
gentle tone.

"Indeed?" asked Mabel nervously.

"That must be Mort Dudley," he went on, half to himself, and still
gazing at the photograph.

("Then it _must_ be his own likeness!" inwardly exclaimed Mabel.)

"I beg your pardon if I am mistaken," Manton added apologetically; "the
picture caught my eye and reminded me very strongly of a college
classmate of mine."

"Then you know Mr. Dudley?" she asked, deeply interested, and forgetful
now of the stranger's reputed mental unsoundness.

"Yes, indeed," he replied, looking at the photograph more closely. "This
is his class-picture. I have one like it. It is an excellent likeness of
him; don't you think so?"

Mabel said that she thought it was, and blushed again as she said it.

Manton concluded from this that there must be something thicker than
mere friendship between Dudley and his new acquaintance, and an awkward
silence ensued.

"Yes," continued Manton presently, "Dudley was the warmest friend I had
at college. I hadn't many," he added, in a tone that struck Mabel as
being somewhat sad. "I hadn't time to make many friends, or even
acquaintances. The work was rather harder for me than for most of the
men, I think; but Dudley, from the very first, helped me when he could,
and I think was the only cheering influence I met with during the entire
course. He was always so full of life and so jolly, and at the same time
sympathetic, and never depressed and in the blues, as I frequently was.
I never could understand why he was so good a frie