fall.

Under K.'s direction, Max did marvels. Cases began to come in to him
from the surrounding towns. To his own daring was added a new and
remarkable technique. But Le Moyne, who had found resignation if not
content, was once again in touch with the work he loved. There were
times when, having thrashed a case out together and outlined the next
day's work for Max, he would walk for hours into the night out over the
hills, fighting his battle. The longing was on him to be in the thick
of things again. The thought of the gas office and its deadly round
sickened him.

It was on one of his long walks that K. found Tillie.

It was December then, gray and raw, with a wet snow that changed to
rain as it fell. The country roads were ankle-deep with mud, the wayside
paths thick with sodden leaves. The dreariness of the countryside that
Saturday afternoon suited his mood. He had ridden to the end of the
street-car line, and started his walk from there. As was his custom, he
wore no overcoat, but a short sweater under his coat. Somewhere along
the road he had picked up a mongrel dog, and, as if in sheer desire for
human society, it trotted companionably at his heels.

Seven miles from the end of the car line he found a road-house, and
stopped in for a glass of Scotch. He was chilled through. The dog
went in with him, and stood looking up into his face. It was as if he
submitted, but wondered why this indoors, with the scents of the road
ahead and the trails of rabbits over the fields.

The house was set in a valley at the foot of two hills. Through the mist
of the December afternoon, it had loomed pleasantly before him. The door
was ajar, and he stepped into a little hall covered with ingrain carpet.
To the right was the dining-room, the table covered with a white cloth,
and in its exact center an uncompromising bunch of dried flowers. To the
left, the typical parlor of such places. It might have been the parlor
of the White Springs Hotel in duplicate, plush self-rocker and all. Over
everything was silence and a pervading smell of fresh varnish. The house
was aggressive with new paint--the sagging old floors shone with it, the
doors gleamed.

"Hello!" called K.

There were slow footsteps upstairs, the closing of a bureau drawer,
the rustle of a woman's dress coming down the stairs. K., standing
uncertainly on a carpet oasis that was the center of the parlor varnish,
stripped off his sweater.

"Not very busy here this