that he intended me to have a sum
apportioned to my deserts."

"Which would be a generous one; but now--Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I help
you?"

"You have never suspected, have you," asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to his
temples, "that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Have
no poet's dreams, lingering in the untenanted spaces, claimed your
beauteous spirit in sleep?"

"Oh, Mr. Perkins, have I your room? I will so gladly give it up--I----"

The poet raised his hand. "No. The place where you have walked is holy
ground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but----"

A meaning look did the rest. "I see," said Elaine, quickly guessing his
thought, "you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I have
thoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?"

"My thoughts," breathed Mr. Perkins, "are perhaps too finely phrased for
modern speech. I would not trespass upon the place you have made your own,
but----"

There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. "I see," she said,
submissively, "I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope
that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek.
And----"

"And," interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, "whatever you
find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle
Ebeneezer's fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did
not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will
remember?"

"I will remember. You need not fear to trust me."

"Then let us shake hands upon our compact." For a moment, Elaine's warm,
rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins.
"Last night," he sighed, "I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises
which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear
nothing?"

"Nothing," returned Elaine; "I sleep very soundly."

"The privilege of unpoetic souls," commented Mr. Perkins. "But, as usual,
my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the
still watches of the night, I achieved a--poem."

"Read it," cried Elaine, rapturously. "Oh, if I might hear it!"

Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh
blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in
careless, artistic fashion.

"As you might expect, if you knew about such things," he began, clearing
his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of