Victory brings peace without; Amity conquers within. How can my thought hide a doubt? Doubt in the mighty is sin! Yet, as I watch from my height, Rearing his spears like a wood, On swarms the dun Muscovite-- Slavish, inebriate, rude! Dim-seen, within the profound, Shapeless, insensate, malign, Fold within dragon-fold wound, Opes the dread Mongol his eyne! _One waking, one in the field-- Foe after foe still I see. Last of them all, half-revealed Prophecy's eye rests on--Me!_ --_A Racial Reverie_. Mr. Brassfield sat alone, listening to Barney Conlon's retreating footsteps. A few years ago I could have described the solitude of the deserted counting-house, and made a really effective scene of it. Now, however, telephones exist to deny us the boon. No sooner do we find ourselves a moment alone, than we think of some one to whom we imagine we have something to say, and call him up over the wire; or, conversely, he thinks of us with like results. Conlon's back was scarcely turned before Brassfield took down the receiver and asked for Alvord's residence. "Jim," said he, "I've just found out that Sheol is popping about town. . . . Yes, it's Edgington. Conlon tells me he's out for McCorkle and against me. . . . Well, maybe not, but Conlon generally knows. You must go out and run it down. We can't have McCorkle nominated--you can see why. . . . All right. I'll wait for you somewhere out of sight. . . . In the Turkish room at Tony's? . . . Very well: I had another engagement, but I must call that off. Thanks, old man. I shall rely on you! Good-by!" Up went the receiver, and then, almost at once was lifted to Brassfield's ear again as he sent in a call for Miss Waldron's residence. "Is this 758? Is Miss Waldron at home? . . . Yes, if you please. . . . This you, Bess? Well, I'm in the hardest of hard luck. Things have come up which will keep me cooped up all the evening. . . . You're awfully good to say so! Good night, dearest!" The lock clicked behind him, and he was out on the street once more. Came into view a figure which was clearly that of a stranger to Bellevale, and yet had an oddly familiar air to Brassfield, as it moved uncertainly along the darkening highway. It came to the point of meeting and halted, facing Brassfield squarely. "I peg bardon," it said, "but haf I the honor of attressing Herr Brassfield, or Herr Amidon?" "My name is Brassfield," was the reply. "What can I do for you?" "I am stopping at the Bellevale House," said the professor. "Blatherwick is my name. I hat hoped that you might rekonice me, as----" "I am sorry to dispel your hope," said Brassfield. "What do you want with me?" "I should pe klad to haf you aggompany me to my rooms," said the professor, "vere I shouldt esdeem it a brifiliche to bresent you to my daughter, and show you some dests in occult phenomena. As the shief citizen of the city----"