The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had sent a letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that Miss May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give up the whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as enthusiastic as I could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and would have whistled to the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call I took my pen again and indited the following: Dear Marjorie:--for so you said I might call you:--I return the money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday morning at ten, when I will come prepared with a sum which will certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest of them all. Sincerely Yours, D.C. No. -- Thirty-fourth Street. I procured a large envelope and took it into the bedroom, where I could re-insert the bank bills without danger of arousing the cupidity of young Mercury. With a lead pencil I added to the note a request that the recipient would send just a line by bearer to show that my message had arrived safely, and saw the boy depart, feeling that I had at last done the sensible thing. Whether this proved to be the case I will leave the reader to judge when he has finished this volume. CHAPTER IX. A PRIVATE DINING ROOM. Saturday evening was dull enough, being only brightened by a pencilled note from Miss May, reading simply, "Money received. Will see you Tuesday." I went over to the Lyceum Theatre to a play called "The Tree of Knowledge," which I now believe one of the brightest things produced on the American stage in years, though I was too full of other thoughts to appreciate it at the time. It was an attempt to shift the burden of blame that has rested in all fiction on the shoulders of the man, to that of the woman, and was so far rather welcome to me. We are a bad lot, as a rule, I am afraid, but some allowance should be made for a case like the one in the play, where a well intentioned young fellow is used as a football by a girl who does not care if his life is ruined, so long as she accomplishes her designs.