corner of the room here, with the safe in the
shadow at first and at last in the full light that poured down from the
glass roof over us. But a little after three a man came into the office
and made ready to open the safe. At ten minutes past three the clock
and the camera took his photograph--in the twinkling of an eye. At
twenty minutes past three a second record was made. Before half-past
three the man was gone, and the camera winked every ten minutes until
six o'clock quite in vain. I came down early this morning and got the
roll of negatives. One after another I developed them, disappointed
that I had almost counted fifty of them without reward. But the
forty-third and the forty-fourth paid for all my trouble."

Mr. Whittier gave his son a look of pride. "That was very ingeniously
worked out, Paul; very ingeniously indeed," he said. "If it had not
been for your clock here I might have found it difficult to prove that
the Major was innocent--especially since he declared himself guilty."

Mr. Wheatcroft rose to his feet, to close the conversation.

"I'm glad we know the truth, anyhow," he asserted, emphatically. And
then, as though to relieve the strain on the old book-keeper, he added,
with a loud laugh at his own joke, "That clock had its hands before its
face all the time--but it kept its eyes open for all that!"

"Don't forget that it had only one eye," said Whittier, joining in the
laugh; "it had an eye single to its duty."

"You know the French saying, father," added Paul, "'In the realm of the
blind the one-eyed man is king.'"

(1895.)

A CONFIDENTIAL POSTSCRIPT

It was pithily said by one of old that a bore is a man who insists upon
talking about himself when you want to talk about yourself. There is
some truth in the saying, no doubt; but surely it should not apply to
the relation of an author to his readers. So long, at least, as they
are holding his book in their hands, it is a fair inference that they
do not wish to talk about themselves just that moment; indeed, it is
not a violent hypothesis to suggest that perhaps they are then willing
enough to have him talk about himself. For the egotistic garrulity of
the author there is, in fact, no more fit occasion than in the final
pages of his book. At that stage of the game he may fairly enough count
on the good humor of his readers, since those who might be dissatisfied
with him would all have yielded to discouragement long before the
postscr