e-loving simpleton, of whose company I was rather ashamed, and
whom I used to hide under my coat when I walked the Embankment, in
London. But now he is strong and sullen, and he is fighting for his
life at the cost of mine. That is his one activity: to grow strong. No
creature ever wanted so much to live. Eventually, I suppose, he will
absorb me altogether. Believe me, you will hate me then.

And what have you to do, Hilda, with this ugly story? Nothing at all.
The little boy drank of the prettiest brook in the forest and he became
a stag. I write all this because I can never tell it to you, and because
it seems as if I could not keep silent any longer. And because I suffer,
Hilda. If any one I loved suffered like this, I'd want to know it. Help
me, Hilda!

B.A.

CHAPTER IX

On the last Saturday in April, the New York "Times" published an account
of the strike complications which were delaying Alexander's New Jersey
bridge, and stated that the engineer himself was in town and at his
office on West Tenth Street.

On Sunday, the day after this notice appeared, Alexander worked all day
at his Tenth Street rooms. His business often called him to New York,
and he had kept an apartment there for years, subletting it when he went
abroad for any length of time. Besides his sleeping-room and bath, there
was a large room, formerly a painter's studio, which he used as a
study and office. It was furnished with the cast-off possessions of his
bachelor days and with odd things which he sheltered for friends of
his who followed itinerant and more or less artistic callings. Over the
fireplace there was a large old-fashioned gilt mirror. Alexander's big
work-table stood in front of one of the three windows, and above the
couch hung the one picture in the room, a big canvas of charming color
and spirit, a study of the Luxembourg Gardens in early spring, painted
in his youth by a man who had since become a portrait-painter of
international renown. He had done it for Alexander when they were
students together in Paris.

Sunday was a cold, raw day and a fine rain fell continuously. When
Alexander came back from dinner he put more wood on his fire, made
himself comfortable, and settled down at his desk, where he began
checking over estimate sheets. It was after nine o'clock and he was
lighting a second pipe, when he thought he heard a sound at his door.
He started and listened, holding the burning match in his hand; again
he