Matthias greeted him suavely: "I was afraid I'd locked you out." Ignoring his attitude even as he seemed to ignore the fact that Marbridge had changed from evening dress to a suit of dark flannels, he added: "Coming in now? It's a bit late." Marbridge pulled himself together. "Perhaps you're right," he assented surlily. But it was with patent effort that he mastered his resentment and accompanied Matthias back to the doors. "A fine night, what?" Matthias filled in the awkward silence. "Yes," agreed Marbridge brusquely. "Too fine," he amended--"too fine to waste in bed." "Sleepless, eh?" "Yes." Following him in, Matthias refastened the door. "Several of us seem troubled with the same indisposition," he observed coolly, swinging to face Marbridge. "That's why I bothered to call you in, you know." Marbridge scowled: "Perhaps I don't get you...." "She has gone back to bed," Matthias explained pleasantly. "I didn't like to think of you waiting out there, all alone." Marbridge choked on a retort, turned and began slowly to mount the stairs. "Oh--going? Half a minute." The man paused, and in silence looked down. "I just happened to think perhaps you haven't a time-table in your room," said Matthias amiably. "There are several early trains tomorrow, you know. I fancy the eight-seven would suit you as well as any." He got no answer other than a grunt. Marbridge resumed his deliberate ascent, gained the upper floor, and disappeared. "Good night!" Matthias called after him, softly; and turned out the light. X Monday afternoon found Mr. Matthias back at his desk and in a tolerably unhappy temper, tormented not only by that conscience-stricken sensation of secret guilt inseparable from a return to neglected work, but also by a less reasonable, in fact inexplicable (to him) feeling of discomfort; as though he were a trespasser upon the premises rather than their lawful tenant. Never before had he felt less at home, never more ill at ease in the homely solitude of his workshop and lodgings. As for his work.... He found page 6 of that promising young first act in the typewriter carriage, precisely as it had been left on his receipt of Helena's peremptory telegram. Removing the sheet, he turned back to the first page, and read what had been written with such high and eager hope; and looked his dashed bewilderment. Knitting portentous brows, sedulously he reconsidered the manuscript at length; then with a groan put it aside, ran fingers through his hair till it rose rampant, and sat scowling darkly at the wall, groping blindly and vainly for the lost ends of that snapped thread of enthusiasm. The first flush of confidence vanished, what he had written owned heart-rending incoherence in his understanding.