o's lodge together for a while. Odd!" he added thoughtfully.
"I've known Satterlee for years, a quiet chap of wonderful kindliness
and generosity. But I've heard Dad tell mad tales of his reckless
whims when he was younger."

"And the first paper?"

"Satterlee had almost forgotten it. It's so long ago. If he thought
at all of its discovery it was to doubt any other fate for it than a
waste-paper basket or a fire. Anything else was too preposterous. But
he brooded a lot over the other. The most terrible results of his
foolhardy whim Carl pledged me not to tell him. Says the blame is all
his and he'll shoulder it. What little we did reveal, horrified
Satterlee inexpressibly. You see he'd found the candlesticks in a
ruined castle. They were sadly battered and he consigned them to a
queer old wood-carver to patch up. In the patching, the shallow wells
came to light, packed with faded, musty love letters from some young
Spanish gallant to somebody's inconstant wife, and the carver spoke of
them. Satterlee impetuously bade him halt his work and wrote a wild
letter to Ann Westfall begging her to let him hide the truth in the
well of the candlestick with the forlorn hope that one day Carl might
know. This she granted. Later he had the candlesticks brought to his
apartments to be sealed in his presence. As he took from his pocket
the written account intended for Carl, another paper fluttered to the
floor. It was the deathbed statement of Theodomir which in a whimsical
moment he had drawn up for the entertainment of your father. He
promptly consigned it to the other well with a shrug. He was greatly
agitated and thought no more about it."

"A careless act," said Diane, "to be fraught with such terrible
results." Then she told the history of her father's letters.

"A persistent moon!" said Philip, glancing up at its mild radiance.
"And my head is queer again. Likely that very moon is shining on the
minister in the village yonder."

"Likely," said Diane cautiously.

The boat swept boldly toward the western shore.

Diane raised questioning eyes to his.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," said Philip. "I did mean to tell you before. It's
abduction."

"Abduction!"

"I'm to be married in the village to-night. And I'm awfully afraid the
benevolent old gentleman in the parsonage is waiting. He promised.
Diane, I can't pretend to swing this function without you!"

"Philip!" faltered Di