t ray of
sunshine was Madeleine's refusal to break her word to her father. That
pleased him most of all.

A knock at the door interrupted his revery. It did not sound like
Phil's, but Adam had been deceived once before and he hurried to meet
him.

This time a messenger stood outside.

"A note for Mr. Adam Gregg," he said. "Are you the man?"

Adam receipted the slip, dismissed the boy and stepped to the middle
of the room under the skylight to see the better. It was from Phil.

"I cannot reach you until late. Have just received a note
from the Seaboard Trust Company saying Mr. Stockton wants to
see me. More trouble for P. C. & Co., I guess. Hope for good
news from Madeleine."

This last note filled his mind with a certain undefined uneasiness.
What fresh trouble had arisen? Had some other securities on which
money had been loaned--made prior to Phil's awakening--been found
wanting in value? He hoped the boy's past wasn't going to hurt him.

With this new anxiety filling his mind he laid down his brushes--he
had not yet touched his canvas--put on his hat and strode out into the
street. A breath of fresh air would clear his head--it always did.

For two hours he walked the pavements--up through the Park; out along
the edge of the river and back again. With every step there came to
him the realization of the parallels existing between his own life's
romance and that of Philip's. Some of these were mere creations of his
brain; others--especially those which ended in the sacrifice of a
man's career for what he considered to be right--had a certain basis
of fact. Then a shiver crept over him: For honor he had lost the woman
he loved: Was Phil to tread the same weary path and for the same
cause? And if fate should be thus cruel would he and Madeleine forget
in time and lead their lives anew and apart, or would their souls cry
out in anguish as his had done all these years, each day bringing a
new longing and each day a new pain: he in all the vigor of his
manhood and the full flower of his accomplishment and still alone and
desolate.

With these reflections, none of them logical--but all showing the
perturbed condition of his mind and his anxiety for those he loved, he
mounted the stairs of the building and pushed open the door of his
studio.

It had grown quite dark and the studio was filled with shadows. As he
crossed to the mantel--he rarely entered the room without pausing for
a moment in f