e startled.

"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over....
And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to me
for it. Otherwise--"

Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckley
close his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.
Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and
some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rather
silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.

* * * * *

Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart club
called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among them
were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue;
Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words;
and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the
Columbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne
and went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode along
whistling.

At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead of
answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddard
advanced, looking very uncomfortable.

"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner.
"I want a chat with you."

"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softly
whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down,
Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.

"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"

"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"

"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."

The drinks came. Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling. Stoddard
followed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" He
blurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."

Francisco set his glass down quickly. He was white. "The--The
Raratonga?"

Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"

Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard's
grief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A page
came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently.
Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the
Raratonga's total destruction with all on board.

Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of directio