e impressed the stray excursionist from the Atkins district,
when he or she visited the great man in whose affairs we felt such a
personal interest. Particularly impressive and significant was a map of
the district hanging over the congressman's desk, and an oil painting
of the Atkins mansion at Bayport, which, with the iron dogs and urns
conspicuous in its foreground, occupied the middle of the largest wall
space.

The cheery fire was very comforting on a night like this, for the sleet
was driving against the windowpanes, the sidewalks were ankle deep in
slush, and the wet, cold wind from the Potomac was whistling down the
street. Somewhere about the house an unfastened shutter slammed in the
gusts. Mr. Atkins should have been extremely comfortable as he sat there
by the fire. He had spent many comfortable winters in that room. But now
there was a frown on his face as he read the letter in his hand. It was
from Simpson, and stated, among other things, that Cyrus Whittaker had
been absent from Bayport for over two weeks, and that no one seemed
to know where he had gone. "The idea seems to be that he started for
Washington," wrote Tad; "but if that is so, it is queer you haven't
seen him. I am suspicious that he is up to something about that harbor
business. I should keep my eye peeled if I was you."

Alicia, the Atkins hopeful, rustled into the room.

"Papa," she said, "I've come to kiss you good night."

Her father performed the ceremony in a perfunctory way.

"All right, all right," he said. "Now run along to bed and don't bother
me, there's a good girl. I wish," he added testily to the housekeeper
who had followed Alicia into the room, "I wish you'd see to that loose
blind. It makes me nervous. Such things as that should be attended to
without specific orders from me."

The housekeeper promised to attend to the blind. She and the girl left
the library. Heman reread the Simpson letter. Then he dropped it in his
lap and sat thinking and twirling his eyeglasses at the end of their
black cord. His thoughts seemed to be not of the pleasantest. The lines
about his mouth had deepened during the last few months. He looked
older.

The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his reverie
with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall where the
instrument hung. It was before the days of the convenient desk 'phone.
He took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the transmitter.

"Hello!" he sai