or carefully behind him.

Five minutes that seemed to the girl a lifetime dragged by. Listening,
she heard the opening of the front door, the murmur of low, speaking
voices,--a murmur ceasing as abruptly as it began; then, wonder of
wonders, the door closed again with a snap and a retreating step sounded
once, twice, as when it had come, on the floor of the porch. Following,
she marked the even footfall of Roberts returning. The electric switch
that he had turned on snapped back as he had found it, the intervening
door opened, and he entered. But, strange to say, he did not pause or say
a word. As one awakening from a dream and not yet wholly conscious, he
returned silently to his former place. On his face was a look she had
never seen before, which she could not fathom.

"Darley." Unbelieving the girl leaned toward him appealingly. "Tell me.
Wasn't it--he?"

The man looked at her then, and there was that in his gray eyes that
tinged her face crimson.

"No. It was Harry Randall," he said. "It's all right, Elice. The miracle
came."

"The miracle!" The voice was uncertain again, but from a far different
cause this time. "Don't keep me waiting. Tell me. Is he--well?"

This time Roberts actually smiled,--smiled as he had not done before in
months.

"Yes; and writing like mad! That's the miracle. He's been at it steady
now for twenty hours, and won't even pause to eat. He sent for Harry to
deliver the message. It's inspiration he's working under and he couldn't
stop to come himself, wouldn't. He said to tell you, and me, that it was
all right. He'd found himself at last. Those were his words,--he'd found
himself at last." As suddenly as it had come the smile passed, and
Roberts stood up, his big hands locked behind his back.

"We've thought we understood him all these years," he said steadily, "but
at last I realize that we haven't at all. It would be humorous if it
hadn't been so near to tragedy, so very near. Anyway, it's clear now.
Harry Randall sees it too. That's why he wouldn't stay. Steve Armstrong
never cared for you really at all, Elice. He thought he did--but he
didn't. It was himself he cared for; and a fancy. Neither you nor I nor
any one can change him or help him more than temporarily. We're free.
He'll stand or go under as it was written in the beginning." The voice
lowered until it throbbed with the conviction that was in the speaker's
soul. "No man alive who really cared could find inspiration where