Marcus blushed, twirled his hat, and made a motion toward the door. "You need not go, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor. "I beg that you will not. I wish to settle up that little unfinished business with you to-night." Marcus saw that the inventor was in earnest. He coughed, and hesitated what to say. But, before he could say anything, Pet had kissed her father, and said "Good-night," in a faint voice, to the guest, and already had her hand on the knob of the door which led to her little sleeping room. "Remember, darling--all the blankets, and your shawl. To-morrow morning you will wake up bright and happy, and ready to enjoy a little surprise that I shall have for you." He jerked his thumb toward the machine. Pet understood him, and smiled sadly. "You need bed more than I, father," said she. "Nonsense, child!" replied the old man, with a hollow laugh. "It is not for the patient to prescribe to the physician. There, good-night, now." He kissed her again with more tenderness. "Remember," said he, "there is a little surprise in store for you to-morrow." Pet said, "Heaven bless you, father," murmured another "Good-night," and disappeared within her sanctuary, closing the door after her. "Now, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor, "we can finish our conversation." His voice sounded like a voice from the tomb. CHAPTER III. THE CLASHING ORBS. The rain had ceased, and the moon was out. The dark, massy clouds that floated between her and the earth were doing their ghostly, phantasmagoric work. At one moment, clear, white light, like a shroud; at another moment, darkness, like a pall. An owl, lighting on the spire of Grace Church in his flight over the city, might have seen the white edge of the shroud, or the black edge of the pall, advancing in well-defined lines over the housetops, and the parks, and the two rivers, swiftly succeeding each other. It was as if the mighty invisible demons of the night were capriciously trying the effects of cerements on the sleeping city. It was as if they were perplexed between the soft beauty of the shroud and the sombre majesty of the pall. A woman could not have tried on two shawls more often and more indecisively, before making up her mind to buy.