ler swallowed his wondering rage.

"I hope you get all that's coming to you!" he said. "I hope he sues you
for a million dollars and collects every penny of it!"

And he turned and thumped out of David's chamber, down the corridor, and
into the living-room, across the living-room, and into his own
bedchamber--and there for a little he sat on the edge of the bed and
swore aloud.

Presently he heard Anthony come through from David's room, muttering to
himself; he heard the switch snap, and the streak of light under his
door vanished.

With a long, weary groan, Johnson Boller slipped back to slumberland,
and presently he was again in Montreal. It was still winter, and they
were holding a skiing contest. Beatrice was there at the top of the
slide, and beside her stood a tall, foppish youth with a little blond
mustache. He leaned very close to Beatrice as he spoke, and devoured her
beauty with his hungry eyes.

In the east the first gray light of dawn was streaking the skies.

In Anthony Fry's living-room, ever so faintly, objects just took shape
in the gloom, coming foggily out of the inky blackness that had been,
even ten minutes ago. Down the corridor a door creaked, and for a minute
or more after the creak the stillness was even more pronounced.

Then, had one been awake and listening, the softest, lightest shuffle
came from the corridor--paused--moved on again. There was a sharp intake
of breath and the almost inaudible sound of a hand feeling along the
corridor wall, feeling along and feeling along, until it touched the
curtains of the living-room.

In the wide doorway of the dusky place an indefinite, strange figure
appeared and stopped. It wore slippers, several sizes too large. It wore
a bathrobe of gray, so long that its owner held it up from the floor to
avoid tripping. It wore pajamas, too, and of these the legs were
upturned almost one foot--for they were Anthony's pajamas.

Warily the figure gazed about, squinting through the gloom for half a
minute, listening intently. Its frowzy brown head nodded then and the
bathrobed one tip-toed on, now with a definite idea of direction. Past
Anthony's door it went and past Johnson Boller's without a sound,
without a slip--stopped to listen again, and then scuffed on toward the
far corner, where stood the little telephone table.

And now, trembling, the figure settled on the stool, and shaky hands
gripped the instrument itself. The receiver went to its ear and t