at must have been about the time you saw him--when he lectured on
'Life.' Poor old Hendry! It's his pride, his confounded pride--that's
the trouble."

I had risen. Rufus Blight came to me and laid a hand on each of my
shoulders. What a change since that day long ago! He had to reach up
to me, and I looked down into his face.

"You'll think me a strange fellow, David. I didn't mean to tell you so
much, but it just would come out when I saw that you understood. We
must find him--you and I. We may find him any day; at this very minute
he may be going by the Old Grub's door. Watch for him."

I promised. I must come often, he said; it was good to have such a
friend as I was, one who could understand, to whom he could talk of old
days in the valley. He had never really been at home since he left the
valley. He had lived in strange places, among strange people. We must
all go back--back to the valley, he and Penelope and I--we should go in
May--Penelope had talked of it--in May, when the orchards were in
blossom.

Rufus Blight laughed at the joyous prospect. And I? I closed my eyes
to it. I turned away, through the great hall, but he, with unwelcome
kindness, followed me to the stairs. What a great expedition it would
be--to the valley--just he and I and Penelope! I laughed
ironically--at myself. I plunged down the deep-carpeted steps. The
grilled door closed behind me. I paused a moment to turn up my collar
against the cold, to button my gloves and collect my scattered
thoughts. How the wind bit!

Across the Avenue a dark figure leaned against the wall of the park.
As I stepped over the pavement the man seemed to think that I was
moving toward him, for he roused himself quickly and walked rapidly up
the street. I laughed at his fright and turned on my way downtown, for
I was thinking of myself and of what I had lost, and I had no care for
shivering tramps. I reached the corner. Rufus Blight's words came
back to me. Had that man been watching the Old Grub's door? I turned
sharply, but I saw nothing, no sign of a living thing save the lights
of a retreating cab.

CHAPTER XIX

I have spoken casually, in this rambling story of mine, of young
Marshall, a fellow-lodger at Miss Minion's. He was the Brummel of the
boarding-house. The fact that he occupied the smallest rear
hall-bedroom, with the minimum of daylight, in no way affected his
standing, for everybody knew that he went out in soc