ever mind how. This is between you and me absolutely. I'm not
to figure--ever. If it goes flat he'll have had his chance. That's all
any of us can have. By the way, again. I'm sorry to miss Mrs. Randall's
dinner-party. I'm not often honored in that way. Anyway, though, perhaps
it's as well. I'm impossible socially; and, fortunately, I know just
enough to realize it. Yes; that's all. Good-night."

Thereafter he waited until he got "Central" on the wire.

"Call me at eleven-thirty," he requested. "I'll be asleep, so ring me
long and loud. Eleven-thirty sharp, remember, please."

He hung up the instrument with a gesture of relief and leaned back in his
chair, his great bushy head against the bare oak, his big hands loose in
his lap. A half-minute perhaps he sat so--until the eyes slowly closed
and, true to his word, and swiftly as a child at close of day, he fell
asleep.

At eleven o'clock the watchman of the building, noticing the light, came
to investigate. A moment he stood in the open door, an appreciative
observer. On tiptoe he moved away.

"Some one's paying good and plenty for this," he commented _sotto voce_
and with a knowing wag of the head. "The old man's all in--and he isn't
doing it for his health alone, you bet!"

CHAPTER VII

TRAVESTY

Out in the street, in front of the Gleason cottage, the red car glistened
in the moonlight. In the shade of the familiar veranda Roberts tossed his
gauntlets and cap on the floor and drew forth two wicker rocking-chairs
where they would catch the slight midsummer night wind.

"Hottest night of the season, I fancy," he commented, as he helped his
companion remove her dust coat and waited thereafter until she was seated
before he took the place by her side. "Old Reliable number two certainly
did us a good turn this evening. Runs like an advertisement, doesn't
it?"

It was a minute before the girl answered. "Yes. It sounds cheap to say
so, but at times, like to-night, it almost seems to me Paradise. It makes
one forget, temporarily, the things one wishes to forget."

"Yes," said her companion.

"I suppose people who have been accustomed to luxuries all their lives
don't think of it at all; but others--" She was silent.

"Yes," said Roberts again, "I think I understand. It's the one
compensation for being hungry a long time, I suppose; the added enjoyment
of the delayed meal when at last it is served. At least that's what those
who never went hungry say. I