"I ought to go up to the factory," he begins, abruptly. "Our watchman is down with the rheumatism. The foreman stayed last night, and I promised to send in some one to-night. Am I growing old and forgetful?" Latimer laughs as he asks how much money is in the safe. If half a million, he will go. "At all events I will walk up and see," Grandon says, and strides along. There is no moon, but he has been over the road so many times that it is no journey at all. Silence and darkness reign supreme. He unfastens the door with his skeleton key, lights a burner in the hallway and a safety lamp which he carries with him. How weird and ghostly these long passages look! The loom-rooms seem tenanted by huge, misshapen denizens of some preadamic world. He stands and looks, and fantastic ideas float through his brain. The engine-room is satisfactory. Everything is right, except that once or twice he catches a strong whiff of kerosene, which he hates utterly. The men may have been using it for something. He inspects nooks and corners, even looks into Wilmarth's little den. How often to traverse a man's plans, makes an enemy of him for life, he ruminates. He turns out the light in the hall and enters the office, remembering two letters he laid in the drawer. How shadowy and tempting the little rooms look! He enters and throws himself on the lounge. A few weeks longer and the place will know him no more except for a chance visit. There have been many cares and trials since the day he sat here and read his father's letter, and his whole life has been changed by them. "But I have done my duty in all honor and honesty," he cries, softly, as if the dead man's spirit were there to hear. "I have defrauded no one, I have taken no money upon usury, I have been true to the living, true to the dead." And again he seems to see St. Vincent's closing eyes. The bell tells off midnight. The strokes sound slower and more august than by busy daylight. If ever the ghost of the dead returned-- No ghost comes, however. He may as well throw himself down here and sleep, as to tramp to the park. No one will miss him. He says that bitterly. Even Cecil is weaned from him. He is no longer her first thought. Is life full of ingratitude, or is he growing morose, doubtful of affection? He lies there awhile, thinking of Violet and the foolish madness he has resolved to overcome. It is well enough for youth and inexperience, but a man of his years! Is there another woman in the world who could have loved him, would have loved him with maddening fervor? Is the old Eastern story of Lilith true? Does she come to tempt him at this midnight hour?