nspects nooks and
corners, even looks into Wilmarth's little den. How often to traverse a
man's plans, makes an enemy of him for life, he ruminates.

He turns out the light in the hall and enters the office, remembering
two letters he laid in the drawer. How shadowy and tempting the little
rooms look! He enters and throws himself on the lounge. A few weeks
longer and the place will know him no more except for a chance visit.
There have been many cares and trials since the day he sat here and
read his father's letter, and his whole life has been changed by them.

"But I have done my duty in all honor and honesty," he cries, softly,
as if the dead man's spirit were there to hear. "I have defrauded no
one, I have taken no money upon usury, I have been true to the living,
true to the dead." And again he seems to see St. Vincent's closing
eyes.

The bell tells off midnight. The strokes sound slower and more august
than by busy daylight. If ever the ghost of the dead returned--

No ghost comes, however. He may as well throw himself down here and
sleep, as to tramp to the park. No one will miss him.

He says that bitterly. Even Cecil is weaned from him. He is no longer
her first thought. Is life full of ingratitude, or is he growing
morose, doubtful of affection?

He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has
resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but
a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have
loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old
Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this
midnight hour?

That is his last thought. When he turns again he is rather cramped, and
he knows he has been asleep. But a curious impression is on his mind,
as if some one came and looked at him. The lamp burns, the corners of
the room are shadowy. An ugly chill creeps up his back, and he rises,
stretches himself, whistles a stave of rondeau, and inspects the outer
room. All is as usual. He will go back to bed. Or had he better take
another turn through the factory?

The door is locked. Did he take out the key? It is always hung in one
place, and the nail is empty. He cudgels his brains for remembrance,
but surely he left the key on the outside.

What can he do? An old traveller, he ought to be fertile in expedients.
He is certainly trapped, and if so, some one is in the factory.

After a moment, he softly opens th