arting to sign her letters. "I'll be glad to
see it any time."

At the door he turned, one hand on the knob.

"I haven't seen Mr. Woodward, Jr., today. Do you expect him tomorrow?"

At any other time she would have asked herself, "Why is he inquiring for
Burdon?"--but she had so much work waiting on her desk, demanding her
attention, that it might be said she was talking subconsciously, hardly
knowing what was asked or answered.

It was dusk when she was through, and the rain had stopped for a time.
Near the entrance to the house on the hill--a turn where she always had
to drive slowly--a shabby man was standing--a bearded man with rounded
shoulders and tired eyes.

"I wonder who he is?" thought Mary. "That's twice I've seen him standing
there...."

Without seeming to do so, a pretence which only a woman can accomplish,
she looked at him again. "How he stares!" she breathed.

As you have guessed, the waiting man was Paul.

For the first time that morning he had heard about the strike--had
heard other things, too--in the cheap hotel where he had spent the
night--obscure but alarming rumours which had led him to change his plans
about an immediate return to his ship. A bit here, a bit there, he had
pieced the story of the strike together--a story which spared no names,
and would have made Burdon Woodward's ears burn many a time if he had
heard it.

"There's a bunch of Bolshevikis come in now--" this was one of the things
which Paul had been told. "'Down with the capitalists who prey on women!'
That's them! But it hasn't caught on. Sounds sort of flat around here to
those who know the women. So this bunch of Bols has been laying low the
last few days. They've hired a boat and go fishing in the lake. They
don't fool me, though--not much they don't. They're up to some deviltry,
you can bet your sweet life, and we'll be hearing about it before long--"

Paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from
New York, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the
station.

"He was up to something--the way he spoke," thought Paul. "And last night
he was in that car on the bridge.... Where do these Bols hang out?" he
asked aloud.

He was told they made their headquarters at Repetti's pool-room, but
though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course
of the day, he failed to see them.

"Looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him.

"Yes," said Paul. "Tall man