shadowy suggestion of the owner's individuality; there
was nothing here that fitted Bly--nor was there either, strange to say,
any evidence of the past proprietor in this inhospitality of sensation.
It did not strike him at the time that it was this very LACK of
individuality which made it weird and unreal, that it was strange only
because it was ARTIFICIAL, and that a REAL Tappington had never
inhabited it.

He walked to the window--that never-failing resource of the unquiet
mind--and looked out. He was a little surprised to find, that, owing
to the grading of the house, the scrub-oaks and bushes of the hill were
nearly on the level of his window, as also was the adjoining side
street on which his second door actually gave. Opening this, the sudden
invasion of the sea-fog and the figure of a pedestrian casually passing
along the disused and abandoned pavement not a dozen feet from where he
had been comfortably seated, presented such a striking contrast to the
studious quiet and cosiness of his secluded apartment that he hurriedly
closed the door again with a sense of indiscreet exposure. Returning
to the window, he glanced to the left, and found that he was overlooked
by the side veranda of another villa in the rear, evidently on its way
to take position on the line of the street. Although in actual and
deliberate transit on rollers across the backyard and still occulting a
part of the view, it remained, after the reckless fashion of the
period, inhabited. Certainly, with a door fronting a thoroughfare, and
a neighbor gradually approaching him, he would not feel lonely or lack
excitement.

He drew his arm-chair to the fire and tried to realize the
all-pervading yet evasive Tappington. There was no portrait of him in
the house, and although Mrs. Brooks had said that he "favored" his
sister, Bly had, without knowing why, instinctively resented it. He had
even timidly asked his employer, and had received the vague reply that
he was "good-looking enough," and the practical but discomposing
retort, "What do you want to know for?" As he really did not know why,
the inquiry had dropped. He stared at the monumental crystal ink-stand
half full of ink, yet spotless and free from stains, that stood on the
table, and tried to picture Tappington daintily dipping into it to
thank the fair donors--"daughters of Rebecca." Who were they? and what
sort of man would they naturally feel grateful to?

What was that?

He turne