ton's mind. The chatter of the evening passed
without Brotherton realizing what it was all about. As for instance,
between Grant Adams and Captain Morton over a sprocket which the Captain
had invented and Henry Fenn had patented for the Captain. Grant on the
other hand kept trying to tell the Captain about his unions organizing
in the Valley, and neither was interested in what the other said, yet
each was bursting with the importance of what he was saying. But even
that comic dialogue could not take Mr. Brotherton's mind from the search
of the sinister connection it was trying to discover, between the
fountain pen and Henry Fenn.

So Brotherton, worried with the affairs of Fenn, was not interested and
the Captain peddled his dream in other marts. With Fenn's ugly face on
his mind, Brotherton saw young Judge Van Dorn swing in lightly, go
through his daily pantomime, all so smoothly, so well oiled, so polished
and polite, so courtly and affable, that for the moment Brotherton laid
aside his fears and abandoned his suspicions. Then Van Dorn, after
playing with his cigar, went to the stationery counter and remarked
casually, "By the by, George, do you keep fountain pens?"

Mr. Brotherton kept fountain pens, and Judge Van Dorn said: "There--that
one over by the ink eraser--yes, that one--the one in the silver
casing--I seem to have mislaid mine. Yale men gave it to me at the
reunion in '91, as president of the class--had my initials on it--ten
years--yes," he looked at the pen offered by the store keeper. "That
will do." Mr. Brotherton watched the Judge as he put the pen in his vest
pocket, after it had been filled.

The Judge picked up a Chicago paper, stowed it away with "Anglo-Saxon
Supremacy" in his green bag. Then he swung gracefully out of the shop
and left Mr. Brotherton wondering where and how Henry Fenn got that pen,
and why he did not return it to its owner.

The air of mystery and malice--two unusual atmospheres for Henry Fenn to
breathe--which he had put around the pen, impressed his friend with the
importance of the thing.

"A mighty smooth proposition," said Grant Adams, sitting in the Amen
Corner reading "A Hazard of New Fortunes," when Van Dorn had gone.

"Well, say, Grant," returned Mr. Brotherton, pondering on the subject of
the lost pen. "Sometimes I think Tom is just a little too oleaginous--a
little too oleaginous," repeated Mr. Brotherton, pleased with his big
word.

That June night Henry Fenn p