Whatever editors, art patrons and publishers might think about James Gurney, Teddy followed in his mother’s footsteps: to him James Gurney was Jimmie Boy, the biggest-hearted companion that a son ever had--a father of whom to be inordinately proud. There was no one as great as his father, no one as clever, no one as splendid to look at in the whole wide world. When he walked down the street, holding his father’s hand, he liked to fancy that people stared after him for his daring, just as they would have stared had he walked with his hand in the mane of a shaggy lion. It was wonderful to be friends with a father so fierce looking. And then his father treated him as a brother artist and borrowed notions from him--really did, without pretense; he’d seen the notions carried out in illustrations. His father had come to borrow from him now. “Any ideas this morning, partner--any ideas that you don’t want yourself?” Teddy hitched himself upon the pillow, trying to look as grave and important as if he wore spectacles. “Yes. A room like this, only lonely with a fire burning and an old, old woman sitting over there.” He pointed to the window and the gilded harp. “I’d let her be playing, Daddy; and a big white bird, that you can see through, must be beating its wings against the panes, trying and always trying to get out.” “A ghost bird?” his father suggested. “Don’t know--just a big white bird and a woman so old that she might be dead.” “What’s the meaning of the bird, old chap? Dreams, or hopes, or memories--something like that?” Teddy could find nothing more in the egg. “Don’t know; that’s the way I saw it” He ceased to be elderly, took off his imaginary spectacles and looked up like a dog who stands wagging his tail, waiting to be patted. “Was that an idea, Daddy?” His father nodded. “A good idea?” “Quite a good idea. But, oh, while I remember it, Mr. Sheerug wanted to see you. You and he must have struck up a great friendship. The faery-godmother won’t let him--says you’re not well. He seems quite upset.” Teddy was puzzled. “Mr. Sheerug!” “Yes, a big fat man with whom you have a secret. He followed me up the stairs and asked me to thank you for not telling.” “Was that Mr. Sheerug?” Teddy’s eyes became large and round. “Why, he’s the mur----I mean, the man who was in the garden.” “That’s right He carried you in when you fainted. What made you faint, Teddy?” The little boy looked blank. If he were to tell, he would get the fat man into trouble; an aggravated murderer, living only six doors removed, would make an awkward neighbor. There was another reason why he looked blank: were he to tell his father of Mr. Sheerug’s special hobby, he would certainly be forbidden to enter Orchid Lodge, and then--why, then he might never meet Vashti. He weighed his fear against his adoration, and decided to keep silent. His father had fallen into a brown study. He had forgotten his inquiry as to the cause of Teddy’s fainting. “Theo.”