“That settles it,” cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, with mock jubilation. “There can be no doubt the old man was leading a double life. The bouquet means a woman in the case.” “And his money goes for flowers and presents,” added the exchange editor. “Some of it, of course,” went on the editorial writer, “and the rest he's saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?” “Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look old. One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition.” “That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like.” “Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than an editor-in-chief.” The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now recalled that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to their efforts to involve him in conversation. He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed from man to man in the office. “Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and wine and things.” “What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!” One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone: “How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?” Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained surprise on his face. “Who?” he inquired. “Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of course.” Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered. “Oh, pardon me,” said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. “I didn't mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But we all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to that sort of pleasantry.” A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an “Oh, I'm not offended,” were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the exchange editor's apology. It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences or receive jests about his love-affairs. A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his mind. Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for periods of three or four hours on other days. “Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?” said the editorial writer to the exchange editor thereupon. “Things are coming to a crisis.”