He opened the leather case. Inside a cover of yellow oiled silk he found first a certificate of deposit for three thousand pounds, and beneath it a packet of letters. He unwrapped them. And, though somehow he had known it without the proof, at the sight of them something caught at his heart with a clutch that made it seem to have stopped beating for a long time. For the sprawling script upon the letters was almost as familiar to him as his own. Slowly he reached down and took up the topmost letter, drew the thin shiny sheets from the envelope, fluttered them, dazed, and stared at the signature: Yours, my dearest lover, JANET. Just so had she signed _his_ letters. It _was_ Janet Spencer. Two of her argosies, each one laden with gold for her, had met in their courses, had sailed for a little together. The first reasonable thought that came to Harber, when he was convinced of the authenticity of the miracle, was that he was free--free to go after the girl he loved, after Vanessa Simola. I think that if he could have done it, he'd have turned the steamer back to the Orient in that moment. The thought that the ship was plunging eastward through a waste of smashing heavy seas was maddening, no less! He didn't want to see Janet or Tawnleytown, again. He did have, he told me, a fleeting desire to know just how many other ships Janet might have launched, but it wasn't strong enough to take him to see her. He sent her the papers and letters by registered mail under an assumed name. And then he went to Claridon, Michigan, to learn of her people when Vanessa might be expected home. They told him she was on her way. So, fearing to miss her if he went seeking, he settled down there and stayed until she came. It was seven months of waiting he had ... but it was worth it in the end. * * * * * And that was Harber's romance. Just an incredible coincidence, you say. I know it. I told Harber that. And Mrs. Harber. And _she_ said nothing at all, but looked at me inscrutably, with a flicker of scorn in her sea-gray eyes. Harber smiled lazily and serenely, and leaned back in his chair, and replied in a superior tone: "My dear Sterne, things that are made in heaven--like my marriage--don't just happen. Can't you see that your stand simply brands you an unbeliever?" And, of course, I _can_ see it. And Harber may be right. I don't know. Does any one, I wonder? ALMA MATER BY O. F. LEWIS From _The Red Book_ Professor Horace Irving had taught Latin for nearly forty years at Huntington College. Then he had come back to Stuyvesant Square, in New York. Now he lived in a little hall bedroom, four flights up, overlooking the Square.