|ALCOTT came back to the city in the afternoon. At four o'clock he was on Lower Bank Street, knocking at Henry Champney's door. “Is Miss Camilla Champney in?” The startled maid stared at him and showed him into the library, where Henry Champney's shelves of massive books covered the lower walls, and over them hung the portraits of Webster, Clay, and Quincy Adams with solemn, shining foreheads. He walked up and down, twisting his fingers, stopping now and then to listen for Camilla's steps. She came soon. “I'm so glad you're here! I want to ask----” She stopped, caught a quick breath, and put her hand to her throat. “What is it?” Alcott's face was white and damp, and his black eyes stared at her. He stood very still. “What is it?” she asked. “Do I look like that? Do I show what I am, gone blind and mad? Do I look it? I could only think of this, of you--I must tell someone. There must be some way. Help me!” He moved about jerkily, talking half incoherently. “He's been here four years. Allen, you know! If I'd known, I could have handled him somehow. But--he's--Hicks--he called himself--Hicks. He killed Wood. I saw him last night, but he's changed, but--my boy, Lolly! Four years he's been in Port Argent--watching me! He called himself Hicks. Don't you see, Camilla! It's my boy! Don't you see! Wait. I'll get buckled down. I can tell you better in a moment.” Camilla leaned back against Henry Champney's big desk, and stared with wide grey eyes. Alcott walked away breathing heavily, and returned. He sat down in the desk chair and dropped his head on his arm. “It's your brother!” “I must save him! Don't you understand? No one shall touch him! He's mine!” He sprang up, walked away, and came again. Camilla thought of many confused things. The bluebird's note was gone from her heart, but the current of the tumult that was there ran in one direction. It poured into Alcott's passion and point of view. Her new pillar of fire and cloud, the man with the halo of her own construction was begging for help, a demigod suddenly become human and suffering, stammering, calling himself blind and mad. “Why, we must get him out!” she cried. She thought of Dick. Another instinct warned her that he would not understand. It was a case where Dick would be a rock in the way, instead of one to anchor to. But thinking of him served to remind her of what he had said the night before. “Listen!” She went on. “He must get out. Listen! Somebody told Dick--what was it? Something about a crowbar or pair of--nonsense! He said a prisoner might get out if he had a chisel. Now we must think about it. Could he get out?” She sat down too. Alcott stared at her in a kind of dull confusion. “Now, this is what I'm thinking,” she hurried on. “What is the place like?” “The place?” “When do you go to him again?” “When I leave here. Perhaps. I hadn't thought.” They leaned closer together across the desk.