will permit, I will lead the way."

"I am trusting you."

"You may do so."

Pratt came in quite briskly, a heavy-faced, white-bearded man, wearing
a sack-suit and an old-fashioned turn-down collar. He greeted Britt
with a casual hand-shake, looking at Kate suspiciously. "And who is
this?" he asked, bluffly.

"A friend of mine, a Mrs. Rice, who desires to see your wonderful
collection of slates and paintings."

Pratt softened a little. "I'll be very glad to show them," he said,
"but not now. I'll have to ask you to excuse me just now. I am in
consultation with my directors."

"Certainly," said Britt, and, after Pratt went out, he added: "That
means that Clarke is going to launch his thunderbolt. He's going to
defy the scientific world in the most burning oration since Cicero."

At this moment two ladies, in superb wraps, descended the stairway on
their way to their carriages, and one of them said, "I think it's a
shame--as long as we've known Simeon Pratt--to be turned away like a
tramp!"

"Oh, I don't blame her," said the other.

"Some disappointed callers," said Britt.

A moment later several other curious ones were ushered into the
drawing-room. Britt kept up a low-toned comment. "All these
rubber-necks are here to see the girl. You will be surprised to know
how many there are with a sneaking belief in these revelations."

It was a singular situation in which to find Simeon Pratt--major-domo
to a crowd of idle curiosity-seekers--and when he returned, with an
assumption of haste and bustle, Britt saw him in a new light--that of
a poor, lonely, broken old man, weary of life, yet living on in daily
hope of communion with the dead, stuffing his heart with dreams and
delusions, walking mechanically round, interested only in death.

He had forgotten Kate's name, but he remembered her wish to see his
treasures.

"Come to my library," he said; "but first let me call your attention
to this remarkable painting."

The painting--or rather wash-drawing in black-and-white--hung over the
grand-piano in the light of the west windows. It was globular in form,
and represented, Simeon explained, the "War of Light and Darkness."
One-half of the globe was darkly shaded, curiously fretted by the
lighter half. Above sat a snow-white eagle. Beneath, with prodigious
wings outspread, and eyes gleaming like points of fire, hovered a
mysterious bat.

"Look closer," commanded Simeon.

Narrower scrutiny brought out, even in