guardian genius. It will be autobiographical,
expansive, and deep as human nature itself, and I shall call it 'The
Record of an Impotent Genius.'"

"Good lack!" observed Amias in a disgusted tone, "what a drivelling
title! Why impotent, in the name of all that is rational?"

"My dear old Philistine," returned his friend in a measured voice, "I
use the word impotent in the meaning attached to it in Holy Writ, and
as my beloved and well-thumbed Thesaurus uses it: impotent, powerless,
unarmed, weaponless, paralytic, crippled, inoperative, ineffectual,
inadequate. Think of the strong man bound for a lifetime, Goliath--of a
dumb and palsied genius gazing out of a prison-house. Could even a
blinded Samson equal the pathos of such a picture?"

Amias shook his head mutely, and felt a third time for his pipe, and
plugged the tobacco tenderly with his finger. In some moods he never
argued with Malcolm.

"I shall write the autobiography of this poor tormented soul," went on
Malcolm--"this dumb poet, this crippled artist, to whom the birthright
of failure has descended, who has to look on for a lifetime at other
men's labours, and to whom the power of expression and creation is
denied, who has been gifted with the seeing eye in vain."

"Oh that seeing eye!" groaned Amias, who had heard this observation at
least a hundred times. Then Verity began to laugh, and, to Anna's
surprise, Malcolm followed suit. Then he clapped Amias heavily on the
shoulder.

"Where's your pipe, Goliath? Poor old Philistine, he is a gone coon
without his baccy. Fetch him a match somebody." And as Amias feebly
protested against this, he went on--"Anna is quite a Bohemian, and
rather likes the smell of tobacco. I will have a cigarette to keep you
company," and in another minute Amias's broad countenance wore its
usual expression of placid enjoyment.

The conversation turned on Cedric Templeton, and Malcolm asked Verity
if she could transform the lumber-room into a bedroom for two or three
nights for the use of his friend. This she at once cheerfully undertook
to do, and promised to have it ready by the following evening, and then
he informed them of his intended visit to Staplegrove.

Verity's eyes at once challenged her husband. "Staplegrove," she said
in a surprised voice, "do you mean Staplegrove in Surrey? Why, that is
the very place where the Logans live."

"Are you speaking of Matt Logan?" asked Malcolm.

"Of course he lives down there; but I