But Professor Ladue, it is to be feared, saw none of these things. He was unconscious of the vista before his eyes. A slight smile was on his handsome face, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one. He withdrew his gaze and glanced distastefully about the room: at the small bundle of papers on his desk, representing his work; at the skull which adorned the desk top; at the half-mounted skeleton of some small reptile of a prehistoric age lying between the windows; at his bed. It was an inoffensive bed; merely a narrow cot, tucked out of the way as completely as might be. Professor Ladue did not care for luxury, at any rate not in beds, so long as they were comfortable, and the bed took up very little room, which was important. As his glance took in these things, a slight expression of disgust took the place of the smile, for a moment; then the smile returned. All expressions in which Professor Ladue indulged were slight. There was nothing the matter with him. He was only tired of work--temporarily sick of the sight of it; which is not an unusual state of mind, for any of us. It may be deplored or it may be regarded as merely the normal state of rebellion of a healthy mind at too much work. That depends largely upon where we draw the line. We might not all draw it where Professor Ladue drew it. And he did not deplore the state of mind in which he found himself. It was a state of mind in which he was finding himself with growing frequency, and when he was in it his sole wish was to be diverted. He opened a drawer in his desk, dumped therein the papers, and, removing from it a box of cigarettes, took one and slipped the box into his pocket. After various tappings and gentle thumpings in the manner of your cigarette-smoker, designed, I suppose, to remove some of the tobacco which the maker had carefully put into it, the cigarette seemed to be considered worthy of his lips. I have no doubt that it was. So he lighted it, cast the match thoughtfully into the empty grate, and rose slowly. He dawdled a minute at the window, looked at his watch, muttered briefly, and went briskly out and down the stairs. He took his overcoat from the rack in the hall and removed the cigarette from his lips for a moment. "Sarah!" he called curtly. His voice was clear and penetrating and full of authority. If I had been Sarah, the quality of that one word, as he uttered it, would have filled me with resentment. A door almost at his elbow opened quickly and a girl appeared. She was well grown and seemed to be about twelve. She was really ten. "What is it, father?" she asked; I had almost said that she demanded it, but there was no lack of respect in her voice. "Please don't disturb mother. She has a headache. I'm taking care of Charlie. What is it?"