n Dick heard these words his heart sank. He was on his way home
accompanied by Olive--Olive in his heart, Olive in his soul, Olive in
his brain, Olive in the sky and all over the earth--how dared a common
mortal intrude himself upon the scene?

"There is another thing," said Locker, who was now keeping step with
him. "My soul is filled with murderous intent. I thirst for human life,
and I need the restraints of companionship."

"Who is it you want to kill?" asked Dick coldly.

"It is an Austrian," replied the other. "I will not say what Austrian,
leaving that to your imagination. I don't suppose you ever killed an
Austrian. Neither have I, but I should like to do it. It would be a
novel and delightful experience."

Dick did not think it necessary that he should be told more; he
perfectly understood the state of the case, for it was impossible not to
see that this young man was paying marked attention to Olive, while Mr.
Du Brant was doing the same thing. But still it seemed well to say
something, and he remarked:

"What is the matter with the Austrian?"

"He is in love with Miss Asher," said Locker, "and so am I. I am
beginning to believe he is positively dangerous. I did not think so at
first, but I do now. He has actually taken to reading. I know that man;
I have often seen him in Washington. He was always running after some
lady or other, but I never knew him to read before. It is a dangerous
symptom. He reads with one eye, while the other sweeps the horizon to
catch a glimpse of her. By the way, that would be a splendid idea for a
district policeman; if he stood under a lamp-post in citizen's dress
reading a book, no criminal would suspect his identity, and he could
keep one eye on the printed page, and devote the other to the cause of
justice. But to return to our sallow mutton, or black sheep, if you
choose. That Austrian ought to be killed!"

Dick smiled sardonically. "He is not your only obstacle," he said.

"I know it," replied Locker. "There's that Chinese laundried fellow,
smooth-finished, who came up this morning. He must be an old offender,
for I saw her giving it to him hot this morning. I am sure she was
telling him exactly what she thought of him, for he turned as red as a
pickled beet. So he will have to scratch pretty hard if he expects to
get into her good graces again, and I suppose that is what he came here
for. But I am not so much afraid of him as I am of that Austrian. If he
keeps on the