raycoat. "Was the brother's epilepsy hereditary?"

"I believe not," Bluelegs returned. "I believe the young gentlemen
inherited a little too much a little too soon for his best good, and
hit up a rather fast pace; his constitution wasn't the best."

"Did she know about all this?"

"I believe she did. Thought she might have saved him if she'd known
sooner, her uncle said."

"Ah," said Graycoat. "Why didn't this kind uncle put his nephew with
the doctor?"

"He wasn't his trustee," Bluelegs answered, quietly.

"Dear me," said Graycoat gently, "how fortunate for the nephew!"

"That's as you look at it," responded Bluelegs.

Caroline dozed in the warm shade; in dreams she chased the French
Queen around the iridescent fountain.

"Uncle any business--besides trusteeship?" asked Graycoat.

"You can search me," said Bluelegs.

"Niece about twenty-one, I take it?" asked Graycoat.

"Search me again," said Bluelegs.

"Should you think," Graycoat demanded, after a pause, "that this
incipient melancholia was likely to last long--speaking, of course,
professionally?"

"Really, Dr. Riggs, I don't know." Bluelegs replied. "I am not at
all in touch with the case. The doctor has entire charge of it. He
mentioned to me last week that he was sorry to see both in her and
young Dahl evidences of clearly formed delusions--"

"Young Dahl!" cried Graycoat, "why, the boy is an admitted
paranoiac!"

"Really?" said Bluelegs, "you know I don't do much but cocaine and
morphia, these days. Did you know the doctor was going to print my
pamphlet?"

"He can afford it, I judge," growled Graycoat. "He gets a hundred a
week from Miss Aitken."

Bluelegs got up and sent a second cigarette after the first.

"Riggs," he said gravely, "if you're aiming to succeed as a magazine
writer, you're beginning well; if it's your ambition to succeed in
this business, and succeed right here, you're beginning badly. You
were keen enough to get this place. If you talk much this way, you
won't keep it long--you can take it from me. Let's come in to
lunch."

Their tread on the arbor floor roused the sleeping conspirator; she
sat up, rubbing her eyes half afraid that the clipped terraces, the
floating, flag, the inhabited castle, were only parts of her dream.
But even as she peered around the arbor, Joan of Arc rushed toward
her. She wore a black shade hat and carried a fluffy black parasol
under her arm.

"Be careful!" she panted. "We can't go yet-