“Tell me the truth, Dubignon”--his face was full of smiles and he leaned back, cutting the cigar--“did you put those plans across on old Throckmorton before he had decided to put up any building at all?” “I believe so, sir.” “And you refused to alter your plans to suit his frontage--made him buy $269,000 worth more?” “I couldn’t change the proportions, sir, to fit his frontage. It would have cut my building to thirty stories.” Mr. Beeker looked at him affectionately. “My boy, will you mind if I tell you the difference between a crank and a genius?” “Of course not, sir.” “A genius is a crank who has succeeded. You’ve had a narrow escape.” But King went back half blind with excitement to his office to find that a postman had left some letters, and Terence, good old Terence, had placed one with a zigzag address on top. It was more of a jumping than a running hand, and had become associated in the mind of the observant Irish lad with dollar tips. It was from Billee in California. The old lady had carried her off to Los Angeles and she hadn’t said goodbye because she knew she would cry on the street, and would he please forgive her, she was so unhappy. And, yes, she was coming home soon; and the little circle in the letter was made by running a pencil around a certain ring. She had laid a kiss in the circle and hoped it wouldn’t fall out. The spot on the paper close by? She had forgotten to wipe her eyes. All this and more. The cicada wears his homely brown suit seven years, and rambles around in the dark underground, perfectly content. Then something happens to him inside and he comes up, crawls on a limb and presently splits his suit wide open down the back. Now he is out with iridescent wings, a guitar under his arm, and life is one long, sweet summer dream. New York was getting uncomfortably small for King Dubignon. The world itself didn’t feel too large. * * * * * Then the window at the end of the Throckmorton hall was finished by the factory and skilled workmen placed it. King went around by appointment to view it Christmas eve with the arc light of the street shining through, the hall lights dimmed. It represented a river night scene, New York’s skyline in the distance and the stars above. On the water in the foreground floated a boy and on his breast lay the face of a sleeping child, her arms clasping his shoulders. A beam of light disclosed the two faces. In design, in execution, in effect, it was admirable. Even King, sitting off up the hallway with Mr. Throckmorton, for the perspective, could find no fault, though, naturally, modesty checked pride. And then to King Dubignon came the shock by which all other emotions measured as tremors. It was as though lightning had descended on his uncovered head. For a lady’s maid, in cap and apron, stood by Mr. Throckmorton, saying: