ss, and for himself any
sickness from which one is warranted never to wake up. This is his
condition because the beautiful million-heiress who is wintering at the
Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu has refused to answer his letters,
cables, and appeals.

He is leaning upon the rail taking his last neck-breaking look at the
Woolworth Building. The going-ashore bugle has sounded,
pocket-handkerchiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the last visitor to
leave the ship, is at the gangway.

"Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where do you keep yourself? Haven't
seen you at the club in a year!"

"Haven't been there in a year--nor mean to!" is the ungracious reply of
our hero.

"Then, for Heaven's sake," exclaims Hutton, "send some one to take your
mail out of the H box! Every time I look for letters I wade through
yours."

"Tear them up!" calls Holworthy. "They're bills."

Hutton now is half-way down the gangplank.

"Then your creditors," he shouts back, "must all live at the Alexander
Young Hotel in Honolulu!"

That night an express train shrieking through the darkness carried with
it toward San Francisco--

In this how evident is the fine Italian hand of the God of Coincidence!

Had Hutton's name begun with an M; had the H in Hutton been silent; had
he not carried to the Mauretania a steamer basket for his rich aunt;
had he not resented the fact that since Holworthy's election to the Van
Sturtevant Club he had ceased to visit the Grill Club--a cure for
sleeping sickness might have been discovered; but two loving hearts
never would have been reunited and that story would not have been
written.

Or, Mrs. Montclair, with a suit-case, is leaving her home forever to
join handsome Harry Bellairs, who is at the corner with a racing-car
and all the money of the bank of which he has been cashier. As the
guilty woman places the farewell letter against the pin-cushion where
her husband will be sure to find it, her infant son turns in his sleep
and jabs himself with a pin. His howl of anguish resembles that of a
puppy on a moonlight night. The mother recognizes her master's voice.
She believes her child dying, flies to the bedside, tears up the
letter, unpacks the suit-case. The next morning at breakfast her
husband, reading the newspaper, exclaims aloud:

"Harry Bellairs," he cries, "has skipped with the bank's money! I
always told you he was not a man you ought to know."

"His manner to me," she says severely, "always