s for a moment.

"I had a twin brother, Brian, who died when we were sixteen. I have
a photograph of him on my wall, an enlargement from a kodak of him,
doing a high jump, rather good thing, full of action. It seemed to
annoy the old gentleman. He kept looking at it and lifting his
eyebrows, and finally he got up, tip-toed across the room, and
turned the picture to the wall.

"'Poor Brian! Fine fellow, but died young,' says he.

"Next morning, there was the picture, still reversed."

"Did he stay long?" Eastman asked interestedly.

"Half an hour, by the clock."

"Did he talk?"

"Well, he rambled."

"What about?"

Cavenaugh rubbed his pale eyebrows before answering.

"About things that an old man ought to want to forget. His
conversation is highly objectionable. Of course he knows me like a
book; everything I've ever done or thought. But when he recalls
them, he throws a bad light on them, somehow. Things that weren't
much off color, look rotten. He doesn't leave one a shred of
self-respect, he really doesn't. That's the amount of it." The young
man whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

"You mean he really talks about things that none of your friends
know?"

"Oh, dear, yes! Recalls things that happened in school. Anything
disagreeable. Funny thing, he always turns Brian's picture to the
wall."

"Does he come often?"

"Yes, oftener, now. Of course I don't know how he gets in
down-stairs. The hall boys never see him. But he has a key to my
door. I don't know how he got it, but I can hear him turn it in the
lock."

"Why don't you keep your driver with you, or telephone for me to
come down?"

"He'd only grin and go down the fire escape as he did before. He's
often done it when Harry's come in suddenly. Everybody has to be
alone sometimes, you know. Besides, I don't want anybody to see him.
He has me there."

"But why not? Why do you feel responsible for him?"

Cavenaugh smiled wearily. "That's rather the point, isn't it? Why do
I? But I absolutely do. That identifies him, more than his knowing
all about my life and my affairs."

Eastman looked at Cavenaugh thoughtfully. "Well, I should advise you
to go in for something altogether different and new, and go in for
it hard; business, engineering, metallurgy, something this old
fellow wouldn't be interested in. See if you can make him remember
logarithms."

Cavenaugh sighed. "No, he has me there, too. People never really
change; they go