liar study. When I speak to you of
phrenology, sir, you smile, and you think, perhaps, of a man who sits in
a back room and takes your shilling for feeling the bumps of your head.
I am not of this order of scientific men, sir. I have diplomas from
every university worth mentioning. I blend the sciences which treat with
the human race. I know something of all of them. Character reading to me
is at once a passion and a science. Leave me alone with a man or a woman
for five minutes, paint me a map of Life, and I will set the signposts
along which that person will travel, and I shall not miss one."

"You are doing no work over here, father, are you?" Beatrice asked.

"None, my dear," he answered, with a faint note of regret in his tone.
"Your sister Elizabeth seemed scarcely to desire it. Her movements are
very uncertain and she likes to have me constantly at hand. My daughter
Elizabeth," he continued, turning to Tavernake, "is a very beautiful
young woman, left in my charge under peculiar circumstances. I feel it
my duty, therefore, to be constantly at hand."

Again there was a flash of that strange look in the girl's face. She
leaned forward, but her father declined to meet her gaze.

"May I ask one or two personal questions?" she faltered. "Remember, I
have not seen or heard anything from either of you for seven months."

"By all means, my dear," the professor declared. "Your sister, I am glad
to say, is well. I myself am as you see me. We have had a pleasant time
and we have met some dear old friends from the other side. Our greatest
trouble is that you are temporarily lost to us."

"Elizabeth doesn't guess--"

"My child," the professor interrupted, "I have been loyal to you.
If Elizabeth knew that I could tell her at any moment your exact
whereabouts, I think that she would be more angry with me than ever she
has been in her life, and, my dear," he added, "you know, when Elizabeth
is angry, things are apt to be unpleasant. But I have been dumb. I have
not spoken, nor shall I. Yet," the professor went on, "you must not
think, Beatrice, that because I yield to your whim in this matter I
recognize any sufficient cause why you should voluntarily estrange
yourself from those whose right and privilege it is to look after you.
You are able, I am glad to see, to make your way in the world. I have
attended the Atlas Theatre, and I am glad to see that you have lost
none of your old skill in the song and dance. You are dese