“That’s all right, Puss; but I’ve got to think of you a bit. I can’t see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke & Stebbin’s. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don’t dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands with handling merchandise. That’s why we quarreled. But don’t worry. Your name didn’t come up, or--or--you know whose. He hasn’t an idea of why I want to work--There, Violet there!” Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in a succession of sisterly kisses. “O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we’ll soon make up the amount, and then--” “Then what?” A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur’s eyes. Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked: “Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of church last Sunday?” She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness. “He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in Massachusetts--the grotto--and--” “Oh, it’s Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He’s fond of church, isn’t he? That is, when he’s in New York.” Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no answer. “I have noticed that he’s always in his seat and always looking your way.” “That’s very odd of him,” she declared, her dimples coming and going in a most bewildering fashion. “I can’t imagine why he should do that.” “Nor I,--” retorted Arthur with a smile. “But he’s human, I suppose. Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of cheering.” He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet, left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands of her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold clock ticking out its inexorable reminder. “He will want an answer the first thing in the morning,” she complained to herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and then a mass of typewritten manuscript. She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as all the others she had had from his hand; as witness: