The cigar, in the tray at his elbow, smouldered on. In the still air of the library, a bluish pencilling of smoke stole straightly upward. It burned until only a powdery shell remained attached to a leafy stub. But Barry never stirred. The night sounds of New York did not reach him in his dreams. And the detective on duty outside the house wondered why the library lights were still burning when dawn’s gray mystery crept over the city. Through the shades, morning light was competing with the electric lamps when soft footsteps sounded on the thickly carpeted stairs. Barry slept on. The footsteps crept lower and lower… and Zalithea stood peeping in at the doorway. She turned swiftly at sight of the sleeper, her fingers raised to her lips. Old Safîyeh’s wrinkled face appeared in the lamplight. Then Zalithea looked again at Barry, his ruffled curly head resting on one shoulder. She watched him longingly, as a woman watches a sleeping child. Once she stole forward, but hesitated and went back.… Very softly she drew the door partly to. The man on duty at the corner saw the two women come out and walk away. He was not surprised. They frequently went for a walk in the early hours of the morning, although he could not recall that they had ever set out quite so early before. As the front door closed, Barry moved. The movement rasped his neck against his collar--and he awoke. Cramped, stale, heavy-headed, he stared about him. Swiftly memory reasserted itself. He stood up, stretching his cramped limbs. Then he crossed and switched off the lights. The library clock registered half-past five. He went upstairs, pausing outside Zalithea’s door and listening intently. He could detect no sound. He passed on, mounted to the floor above, and went to bed. His next awakening was a tragic one. John Cumberland burst into his room, with: “Barry! Barry! Zalithea has disappeared!” “What!” Barry sprang out of bed, his eyes wide in sudden fear. John Cumberland’s face was pale. “She and Safîyeh went out at half-past five this morning. They have not returned. It’s after ten o’clock.” Half-past five… what memory did this awaken? Of course!… “But I was in the library at that time!” Barry cried. “They must have seen me!” “Explain,” said John Cumberland. “What were you doing in the library so early?” Barry, very briefly, told the story, mincing no words, concealing nothing. As he spoke, he was dressing in feverish haste. “The door was closed, I suppose?” his father asked dully. Barry paused in his task. He looked up. “By heaven,” he said, “she must have closed it! Edwards left it open, and I fell asleep watching the lobby. But it was half to when I woke up!” “Do you realize, Barry,” his father asked, “that it was probably the shutting of the front door that awakened you?” “I can’t bear to think of it.”