Mr. Borrowscale had not given up the ministry on account of advanced age, for he was only forty; nor on account of physical infirmity, for he was a rugged specimen of manhood and enjoyed the best of health. His critics, and all successful men have them, declared that he had forsaken the service of God for that of Mammon. While officiating, he had received a large salary. Being a bachelor, he had lived economically and invested his savings in real estate. He was the owner of six tenement houses--models of their kind, and the “Cawthorne.” Before leaving college, he had loved a young girl named Edith Cawthorne. She had died, and at her grave he had parted with her,--and love of women, but, that sentiment was not wholly dead within him, the name of his hotel attested. He had another attribute; he was intensely moral. The “Cawthorne” was his pride, but he had a constant fear that some undesirable--that is, immoral--person would find lodgment in his caravansary. For certain reasons, Mr. Cass was indispensable. He had been a “high roller” until he came under the Rev. Mr. Borrowscale's tutelage. “Mr. Cass, you know the bad when you see it--I do not. The reputation of my house must be like Caesar's ghost--above suspicion.” He had said “ghost.” He had seen but two plays--“Hamlet” and “Julius Caesar,” and for that reason his dramatic inaccuracy may be excused. So Mr. Cass became a moral sleuth, and woe betide an applicant for rooms, and occasional board, who could not produce unimpeachable references, and point to an unsullied record in the past. Miss Dana's respectability and social standing had been abundantly vouched for, and her financial responsibility had been demonstrated by monthly payments in advance. It was the first evening Quincy had been out since his illness. “Is Miss Dana in?” asked Quincy as he presented his card to Mr. Cass. “I am quite positive she is. I am strengthened in this belief by the fact that she had her supper sent up to her room. A fine specimen of womanhood, and a remarkable appetite for so lovely a creature.” Quincy had an inclination to brain him with the telephone stand, but restrained his murderous impulse. “Will you please send up my card?” was his interrogatory protest against further enumeration of Miss Dana's charms and gastronomic ability. “No need to do so, Mr. Sawyer,” for he had inspected the card carefully. “We have a private telephone in each room. Will you await her in the public parlour?” “Hasn't she more than one room?” “Oh, yes; a three room suite, sitting-room, boudoir, which I am sure she uses more as a study, a chamber--and private bath.” Quincy said, “I would prefer to see her in her sitting-room.” “Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Cass. “Our rules are only prohibitive in the case of single chambers or alcove suites, when the caller and tenant are of opposite sexes. The proprietor--he was formerly a clergyman--is tenacious on certain points.”