One of the many delightful things about the Bonnie Lassie is that it's never necessary to draw diagrams for her. So I left it to her and went to telephone Carlo. He said that he had a business engagement or two for the following morning, but it didn't matter (in a voice which indicated that nothing in the world mattered any more), and if I wished to see him of course he'd come. So I bade the Bonnie Lassie good-day and went home to mature a reasonable excuse for summoning one of the busiest young men in America to my side. By the time he arrived the next day I had a plausible sort of lie fixed up about a stock concerning which I wished some advice. Schepstein, our local financier, had coached me on it. But when Carlo inquired at the start whether it was common or preferred I was talking about, I had to admit that I didn't know. “What _did_ you send for me for, then, dominie?” he asked patiently. A motor-car which I recognized had arrived at and departed from the Bonnie Lassie's door. I played desperately for time, while Carlo's disconsolate regard wandered to the wire-mesh structure, seen only dimly now through the half-bare branches of trees which had been small when he was a boy and my pupil. From where he sat he could not see--I maneuvered his seat to manage that--what I saw; two girlish figures cross Our Square and separate at the entrance to No. 13. The Bonnie Lassie had done her part. Now for mine. “Carlo,” I said, “are you looking at the Tiger's cage?” “Yes.” “They're tearing it down to-day or to-morrow.” “Are they?” said he vaguely, and lost himself in a sad maze. I reflected with bitterness that sentiment in the man and sentiment in the woman often assume different manifestations. “I was in your garret last week,” I continued. “It isn't much changed.” “What is it being used for?” “A sort of loft. The wall panel your father sketched in crayon is still there.” “I'd like to see that,” said Carlo. “Nothing easier,” I replied with elation. “I know the people. Come along.” Five minutes later we were climbing the stairs to the top floor. Carlo sought out the blurred sketch and stood before it. “Poor old padre,” he mused. “He believed that he was destined to become a great painter. I wonder.” His glance roamed. “There's where I used to sleep when the nights were hot. And there's my study corner. You were good to me, dominie. What's the matter? Aren't you well?” “It's close here,” I said with desperate strategy, and pushed open the dormer half-door leading to the roof.