“Maybe he does know,” replied Haydock, listening intently to the voices in the bed-room. Suddenly they ceased. Wolcott burst into his loud laugh, and both men began to talk again at once. “I wish they’d hurry up!” added Haydock, with suppressed excitement. Then the door opened, and McGaw, looking ill at ease, but smiling wanly, came out, followed by Wolcott, who went with him as far as the hall. “And don’t come before ten o’clock,” Wolcott said, shaking hands. “I’m not often in early in the evening.” Wolcott, chuckling delightfully, came across the room, and laid a tiny oblong bit of white linen on Haydock’s knee. On it was printed the name of a Boston tailor, followed in handwriting by Wolcott’s name and a date and some cabalistic letters and numerals written in a clear round hand. Wolcott folded his arms and grinned. Haydock knew where it must have come from, yet he looked puzzled. “But I remember distinctly having ripped it out that afternoon before you sent them around to Barrows,” he said, after a moment. “Out of the coat,--not the trousers; they sew them under the right-hand pocket of the trousers sometimes,--so McGaw says,” Wolcott laughed like a child. “That pressed the button, so to speak, and Barrows, confound him! did the rest.” “Well, well, well!” was all Haydock could say; he didn’t like to let Sears know that he had told Miss Wolcott, and that she was eager for details. “Who was that who just went out, Searsy?” asked Miss Wolcott, innocently. “That? Oh--a friend of mine,” answered The Magnificent One, winking at Haydock, as he took back the tailor’s label, and put it in his card-case. WELLINGTON “If I’d only known sooner that you were coming, I could have asked some of the fellows round to meet you,” said Haydock, politely. No matter how well you may know a woman, you are always apprehensive when she comes to Cambridge that she has a thirst for tea. “I think I like this better,” his mother answered, stopping to look back. She was a lady of excellent taste, yet almost any one must have preferred the Yard that Sunday afternoon. The riotous new green of early spring had matured to an academic sombreness that made the elms, the stretches of sun-flecked grass, the tremulous ivy, and the simple brick buildings inseparable in one’s thoughts. The dignity of the great space between Grays and Holworthy had grown with the late afternoon shadows, and Haydock and his mother, who had sauntered from path to path, listening to the leaves, and the robins, and the quiet confidences of the wise bricks, talked of Harvard. Although the place was large and deserted at this hour, it was far from lonely. “Oh, yes, I like this much better,” mused Mrs. Haydock again. Philip looked pleased. “It’s always beautiful,” he said; “and there’s so much else,” he added rather obscurely. But his mother seemed to know, for she looked at him after a moment and answered,--