His Aunt Emmeline’s unanswered letter appeared from under a pile of papers. He opened it again and read it through, then seized his hat and hurried forth. Two minutes later a hulking six-footer, with face rosy from rapid walking, presented himself at the delivery window of the Seaton library. “Have you bound copies of old _Atlantics?_” he asked, with an eagerness quite unusual in searchers of by-gone periodicals. “We have a complete set from the beginning,” replied the librarian, promptly. This set she had herself completed by researches in the garrets of the villagers, and she was proud of her achievement. “I should like to look at several around 1870,” said Wolcott. “May I begin with ’67?” The two volumes were brought, and he eagerly scanned the table of contents. Miss Codman’s name was not to be found among the contributors of poetry. Then another year was examined, and still another. It was in the second volume of the fourth year, which he had mentally resolved should be the last he would ask for, that the title “A Sail! A Sail!” in roman followed by _Alice Codman_ in italics, at length caught his eye. Hurriedly he fluttered the leaves to page 873, as the index directed. Alice Codman’s poem contained four stanzas,—identical with four of the stanzas published in the last _Lit_ over Marchmont’s name! Wolcott shut the book with a bang, noted the page and volume on a library slip, and returned the books to the librarian. “Can you tell me whether any student has had this volume in the last two months?” he asked. “We keep no record after a book has been returned,” replied the librarian. “These old periodicals are seldom called for, but I remember that a student took out several old _Atlantics_ and _Littells_ four or five weeks ago. I have forgotten his name. He was tall and slender, very well dressed, and with extremely polite manners.” “Was it Marchmont?” “That’s the name—Marchmont.” Wolcott’s expressions of gratitude to the librarian as he left the delivery window, if not as polite as Marchmont’s, were at least as sincere. On the way home he stopped at the post-office, where he mailed a postal card bearing Tompkins’s address on one side, and on the other: “Consult _Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. 25, page 873.” Then he strode home, reiterating his resolution with every step. His intimacy with Marchmont was over. CHAPTER XIII RED RETRIBUTION