his book, and, in hell, I
shall know and be glad.

"MARIA MODENA DI CAVOURI.

"Florence, 1476."

* * * * *

"Whew!" said old Erskine.

John laughed. "I don't suppose this charming history would have been
any more thrilling if I had read it from the original book, in
Italian, of course. Wonder where Uncle got it! There was no mention of
it being in the library--but there it was."

"Now, will you destroy those boots?" asked Eric, and he was not
entirely in jest.

But Suzanne said, laughingly, "Not before I find out if the Medici
lady had a smaller foot than I! Are they still in the museum, John?"

"Never you mind, my dear. They're not for the likes of you."

"Oh, don't be silly, John. This is 1935, not the Fifteenth Century."
And they laughed at Suzanne's earnestness.

The book that held the story of the Medici boots lay on the white
cloth, looking like a book of lovely verse.

Suzanne, a small white blur against the summer dark, sat quietly while
the men talked of Silas Dickerson, his life, his mania for collecting,
his death that had so fittingly come to him in his museum. It was
nearly twelve when Suzanne left the men on the terrace and with a
quiet "good-night" entered the living-room and crossed to the long,
shining stairs.

The men went on with their talk. Once, John, looking toward the
jutting wing that was the museum, exclaimed, "Look at that, will you?
Why--I'd swear I saw a light in the museum."

"You locked it, didn't you?" asked Eric.

"Of course; the key's in my desk upstairs. H-m. I'm probably mistaken,
but it did seem as though a light shone there just a moment ago."

"Reflection from the living-room window, I think. Country life is
making you jittery, John." And Eric laughed at his brother.

The men sat on, reluctant to leave the beauty of the night, and it was
almost two o'clock when they finally went inside.

John said, "I think I'll not disturb Suzanne." And he went to sleep in
a wide four-postered bed in a room next to his wife. Eric and the old
lawyer were in rooms across the hall.

* * * * *

The still summer night closed about the house of Silas Dickerson, and
when the moon lay dying against the bank of cloud, puffed across a sky
by the little wind that came before dawn, young Doctor Eric Delameter
awoke, suddenly and completely, to a feeli