The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly carmine nose. Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire chief, now village constable. 'Young Calverly here?' asked the official in a husky voice. Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were darting this way and that. 'What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?' Tim seemed embarrassed. 'Why----' he began, 'why----' 'Some trouble?' 'Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse's suing him.' Humphrey tried to consider this. 'What for?' 'Well--libel. One o' them stories o' his. I liked 'em myself. My folks all say he's a great kid. But Charlie's pretty sore.' 'Suing for a lot, I suppose?' 'Why yes. Well--ten thousand.' 'Hm!' 'He lives with you, don't he--back of the Parmenter place?' 'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to make Tim's task easy. The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake. Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read _Sinbad the Treasurer_ through. There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse. 'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got his nerve, too.' Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil. 2 Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up the street, now down. A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered with silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert Avenue, two wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two dignified figures on the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, commanding, sitting erect and high, the other slighter and not commanding. Instantly, at the sight, Henry's frown gave place to a nervously eager smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before Berger's grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young man. The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one stepped out and entered Berger's. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, leaned out to welcome the youth who rushed across the street.