the second time within the hour. If
the McCorquodale incident earlier in the evening had lowered his
opinion of his own judgment he was now ready to concede that he had no
judgment whatsoever. It was of little use to tell himself that it
served her right, or that she had dared him deliberately to do what he
had done. That did not alter the fact that if he ever met her
again--it was not likely that he would, of course, but if he
did,--somewhere, sometime--he had erected a barrier to her good will
which would preclude all hope of her friendship. His status in her
sight was that of a "miserable fresh Aleck!"

Thus, as a relief to his feelings and in part to keep warm by exertion,
did Phil come home through the fog at headlong pace in a high state of
discontent, a veritable bear with a sore head. As he lifted the canoe
to its place in the boathouse something pricked his finger, and by the
light of a match he found a dollar bill pinned to one of the canoe
cushions with a tiny brooch. His hire!--the only reward he had had any
right to expect! The sight of these souvenirs did not tend to restore
his peace of mind, and there was little mirth in the short laugh which
he bestowed upon them as he thrust them into his pocket; yet it is
interesting that he looked upon them as souvenirs, even while deciding
to dismiss the whole matter permanently from his thoughts.

The launch was not back yet, he noted. Well, Stinson could go to the
devil with it for all he cared! He slammed the boathouse door and
strode up the side-street, this mood carrying as far as the picket
gate. His hand was on the latch before he realized that the library
windows were blurring through the fog with light.

Had the servants all gone crazy to-night? He went around to the front
of the house, and with his face between the slats of the verandah
railing, peered through the French windows. Muttering astonishment, he
climbed over the railing, fitted his latch-key noiselessly and swung
open the double glass doors that gave direct entrance to the room. The
slight sound of his entry passed unnoticed by the Honorable Milton
Waring, who continued to lean over his desk completely absorbed in a
litter of papers.

But for the heavy odor of stale cigar smoke it would have been easy to
suppose that the fog without had crept into the library. The air was
blue. Phil's glance swept the disordered room. Three empty whisky
glasses stood on the library table. T