zed way. "Tell Miss Colton that I am very
glad, Johnson," I said. "And tell her, too, that everything here is
satisfactory also. Tell her that Mr. Paine says her father has his
control."

"'His control!' And what may that be, if you please, sir?"

"She will understand. Say that everything is all right, we have won and
that Mr. Colton has his control. Don't forget."

"And--and where will you be, sir?"

"I am going home, I think. I am going home and--to bed."

CHAPTER XXIII

The next thing I remember with any distinctness is Dorinda's knocking
at my bedroom door. I remember reaching that bedroom, of course, and
of meeting Lute in the kitchen and telling him that I was not to be
disturbed, that I should not come down to supper and that I wanted to
be let alone--to be let ALONE--until I saw fit to show myself. But these
memories are all foggy and mixed with dreams and nightmares. As I say,
the next thing that I remember distinctly after staggering from the
Colton library is Dorinda's knocking at the door of my bedroom.

"Ros! Roscoe!" she was calling. "Can you get up now? There is somebody
downstairs waitin' to see you."

I turned over in bed and began to collect my senses.

"What time is it, Dorinda?" I asked, drowsily.

"About ten, or a little after."

Ten! Then I had not slept so long, after all. It was nearly four when
I went to bed and . . . But what made the room so light? There was no
lamp. And the windows . . . I sat up.

"You don't mean to tell me it is ten o'clock IN THE FORENOON!" I cried.

"Um-hm. I hated to disturb you. You've been sleepin' like the
everlastin' hills and I knew you must be completely wore out. But I felt
pretty sartin you'd want to see the--who 'tis that here's to see you, so
I decided to wake you up."

"It is high time you did, I should think! I'll be down in a minute. Who
is it that wishes to see me, Dorinda?"

But Dorinda had gone. I dressed hurriedly and descended the stairs to
the dining-room. There, seated in a chair by the door, his eyes closed,
his chin resting upon his chest, and his aristocratic nose proclaiming
the fact that he slumbered, was Johnson, the Colton butler. I was not
greatly surprised. I had rather suspected that my caller might be he, or
some other messenger from the big house.

He started at the sound of my entrance and awoke.

"I--I beg your pardon, sir," he stammered. "I--I beg your pardon, sir,
I'm sure. I've been--I 'aven't closed my eyes