y.

He came hurrying to her side at her nervous hail.

"What is it, ma'am?" asked Rooney.

"You'll be careful, won't you, Rooney?" she asked in a low voice.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I'm always careful. Nobody can get in to harm anything
while Rooney's about."

"I don't mean that. I want you to be careful yourself, when you're in
this room to-night."

"Why, miss, what is there to be wary of? Nothin' but some funny lookin'
stones, far as I can see."

* * * * *

The young woman was embarrassed by her own impalpable fears, and she
took leave of Rooney and rejoined her father, determined to overcome
them and dismiss them from her mind.

All the way home and during their evening meal and afterwards, Professor
Young poked fun at Betty. She took it good-naturedly, and laughed to see
her father in such fine humor. Professor Young was a widower, and Betty
was housekeeper in their flat; though a maid did the cooking for them
and cleaned the rooms, the young woman planned the meals and saw to it
that everything was homelike for them.

After a pleasant evening together, reading, and discussing the new
additions to the collection, they went to bed.

Betty Young slept fitfully. She was harassed by dreams, dreams of huge
eyes that came closer and closer to her, that at last seemed to engulf
her.

She awakened finally from a nap, and started up in her bed. The sun was
up, but the clock on the bureau said it was only seven o'clock, too
early to arise for the day's work. But then the sound of the telephone
bell ringing in the hall caused her to get up and don her slippers and
dressing gown and hurry out into the living room.

* * * * *

Before she reached the phone, however, she heard her father's voice
answering.

"Hello.... Yes, speaking. Good morning, Smythe."

Smythe was the janitor of the museum. Betty, standing behind her father,
wondered what he could want that he should phone so early in the
morning. Her father's next words sent a thrill of fright through her
heart.

"My God! I--I can't believe it!" cried Young. "Is he dead?"

There was a pause; Betty caught the sound of the excited Smythe's tones
through the receiver.

"Who--who is it?" she whispered, clasping her parent's arm.

"I'll be right down, yes."

Young hung up, turned to his daughter. His face was sad, heavily lined
with shadows of sorrow.

"Dear, there's been a tragedy at the museum du