our banishment? Shall we send a Roger Williams over the
hills?"

"John, what are you trying to get at?" Richmond asked.

McGlenn looked serenely at him. "Have you devoured your usual quota of
pickles? If so, writhe in your misery until I have dined."

"I writhe, not with what I have eaten, but at what I see. Is there a
more distressing sight than an epicure--or a gourmand, rather--with a
ragged purse?"

"Oh, yes; a stuffer, a glutton without a purse."

Richmond laughed. "Hunger may force a man to apparent gluttony," he
said, "and a sandbagger may have taken his purse; and all on his part
is honesty. But there is pretense--which I hold is not honest--in an
effort to be an epicure."

"Ah, which you hold is not honest. A most rare but truthful avowal,
since nothing you hold is honest."

"In my willingness to help the weak," Richmond replied, "I have held
your overcoat while you put it on."

"And it was not an honest covering until you took your hands off."

"Neither did it cover honesty until some other man put it on by
mistake," Richmond rejoined.

DeGolyer went to his office, and Richmond and McGlenn, wrangling as
they walked along, betook themselves to the Press Club. "I tell you,"
said McGlenn, as they were going up the stairs, "that he needs our
sympathy. He has suffered, but having suffered, he is great."

Thus the weeks were sprinkled with light incidents, and thus the days
dripped into the past--and a designated future was drawing near.

"Well," Witherspoon remarked one Sunday morning, "the time set by your
insane friend will soon be up."

"Yes, within a week," DeGolyer replied.

"I should think that he is more in need of apartments in an asylum
than of a newspaper; but if he thinks he knows his business, all
right; we have nothing to say. What has he agreed to give for the
paper?"

"No price has been fixed, but there'll be no trouble about that."

"I hope not."

"Did you understand mother and Ellen to say they were going out
shopping to-morrow afternoon?" DeGolyer asked.

"Yes, but what of it?"

"There's this of it: If they decide to go, I want you to meet me here
at three o'clock."

"Why can't you meet me at the store?"

"Don't I tell you that my friend is peculiar?"

"Oh, it's to meet him, eh? All right, I'll be here."

His play was nearing the end. To-morrow he must snatch "the make-up"
off his face. He felt a sadness that was more than half a joy. He
should be free; he should be