he assumed it. To the warden on the wire St. George put his inquiry. "What are your visitors' days up there, Mr. Jeffrey?" "Thursdays," came the reply, and the warden's voice suggested handcuffs by way of hospitality. "This is St. George of the Sentinel. I want very much to see one of your people--a mulatto woman. Can you fix it for me?" "Certainly not," returned the warden promptly. "The Sentinel knows perfectly that newspaper men can not be admitted here." "Ah, well now, of course," St. George conceded, "but if you have a mysterious boarder who talks Patagonian or something, and we think that perhaps we can talk with her, why then--" "It doesn't matter whether you can talk every language in South America," said the warden bruskly. "I'm very busy now, and--" "See here, Mr. Jeffrey," said St. George, "is no one allowed there but relatives of the guests?" "Nobody,"--crisply. "I beg your pardon, that is literal?" "Relatives, with a permit," divulged the warden, who, if he had had a sceptre would have used it at table, he was so fond of his little power, "and the Readers' Guild." "Ah--the Readers' Guild," said St. George. "What days, Mr. Jeffrey?" "To-day and Saturdays, ten o'clock. I'm sorry, Mr. St. George, but I'm a very busy man and now--" "Good-by," St. George cried triumphantly. In half an hour he was at the Grand Central station, boarding a train for the Reformatory town. It was a little after ten o'clock when he rang the bell at the house presided over by Chillingworth's "rabble of wild eagles." The Reformatory, a boastful, brick building set in grounds that seemed freshly starched and ironed, had a discoloured door that would have frowned and threatened of its own accord, even without the printed warnings pasted to its panels stating that no application for admission, with or without permits, would be honoured upon any day save Thursday. This was Tuesday. Presently, the chains having fallen within after a feudal rattling, an old man who looked born to the business of snapping up a drawbridge in
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