there was something the dead man wanted him to do.

A

Of all this he said nothing to Edith, and it was a relief to know that she was of too practical a nature to harbor imaginings similar to his own. Her days were spent in settling down, and he agreed thankfully with all she proposed, stipulating only that the study itself should remain absolutely undisturbed. That room, he announced with an air of great contentment, had been designed and equipped to suit his particular fancy. When he said this it seemed that the portrait of Millicent signaled its silent approval.

It was one evening when he was at the desk, trying as usual to classify his own thoughts, that Edith looked up from the book in her lap.

“Jack,” she said suddenly.

He put down his pen with relief. There were whispering shadows in the corner, and one could not work to-night.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Will you tell me something, quite honestly?”

He smiled and nodded. “It’s no particular effort to be honest with you. What am I suspected of now?”

She glanced into the leaping fire, and turned with a quick, familiar motion. “How’s the book going? I do so want to know.”

“It isn’t making what one would call absolutely triumphant progress. It’s generally that way at first. Then later on you realize that you’ve done far more than you thought, and the happy issue is in sight.”

“Do you know yet whether Beech Lodge is as good a place to work in as you expected?”

“I think it is, quite,” he said slowly. “It’s a new atmosphere, and one doesn’t get it at once, but whatever I write here will be different and”—he hesitated an instant—“I think stronger than anything I’ve done yet. I can see that already.”

“I’m glad you haven’t any second thoughts about the place.”

“But I have, quite a lot. They’re not sorted out yet. What about you? Too busy to think at all?”

She glanced at him oddly. “I’ve been trying to be too busy but haven’t quite succeeded.” She said this with a touch of reluctance, as though confessing to 

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