ed, where she came loitering along the shadow-dappled path.

She seemed surprised to see me.

She thought it rather late to sit down, but she seated herself. I talked
to her enthusiastically about anthropology. She was so interested that
after a while she could scarcely keep still, moving her slim little feet
restlessly, biting her pretty lower lip, shifting her position--all
certain symptoms of an interest in science which even approached
excitement.

Warmed to the heart by her eager and sympathetic interest in the noble
science so precious, so dear to me, I took her little hand to soothe and
quiet her, realizing that she might become overexcited as I described the
pituitary body and why its former functions had become atrophied until
the gland itself was nearly obsolete.

So intense her interest had been that she seemed a little tired. I
decided to give adequate material support to her spinal process. It
seemed to rest and soothe her. I don't remember that she said anything
except: "Mr. _Smith_!" I don't recollect what we were saying when she
mentioned me by name rather abruptly.

The afternoon was wonderfully still and calm. The month was June.

After a while--quite a while--some little time in point of accurate
fact--she detected the sound of approaching footsteps.

I remember that she was seated at the opposite end of the bench, rather
feverishly occupied with her hat and her hair, when young Jones came
hastily along the path, caught sight of us, halted, turned violently
red--being a shy young man--but instead of taking himself off, he seemed
to recover from a momentary paralysis.

"Mr. Smith!" he said sharply. "Professor Boomly has disappeared; there's
a pool of blood on his desk; his coat, hat, and waistcoat are lying on
the floor, the room is a wreck, and Dr. Quint is in there tearing up the
carpet and behaving like a madman. We think he suddenly went insane and
murdered Professor Boomly. What is to be done?"

Horrified, I had risen at his first word. And now, as I understood the
full purport of his dreadful message, my hair stirred under my hat and
I gazed at him, appalled.

"What is to be done?" he demanded. "Shall I telephone for the police?"

"Do you actually believe," I faltered, "that this unfortunate man has
murdered Boomly?"

"I don't know. I looked over the transom, but I couldn't see Professor
Boomly. Dr. Quint has locked the door."

"And he's tearing up the carpet?"

"Like a lunatic.