The aide was the first to break the silence. In a polite tone, as though he were continuing a conversation which had not been interrupted, he addressed the admiral. "Of course, Rueff's written confession was not needed," he said. "His shooting himself proved that he was guilty." Swanson started as though across his naked shoulders the aide had drawn a whip. In penitence and gratitude he raised his eyes to the stars. High above his head the strands of the wireless, swinging from the towering masts like the strings of a giant Aeolian harp, were swept by the wind from the ocean. To Swanson the sighing and whispering wires sang in praise and thanksgiving. THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE The God of Coincidence is fortunate in possessing innumerable press agents. They have made the length of his arm a proverb. How at exactly the right moment he extends it across continents and drags two and two together, thus causing four to result where but for him sixes and sevens would have obtained, they have made known to the readers of all of our best magazines. For instance, Holworthy is leaving for the Congo to find a cure for the sleeping sickness, and for himself any sickness from which one is warranted never to wake up. This is his condition because the beautiful million-heiress who is wintering at the Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu has refused to answer his letters, cables, and appeals. He is leaning upon the rail taking his last neck-breaking look at the Woolworth Building. The going-ashore bugle has sounded, pocket-handkerchiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the last visitor to leave the ship, is at the gangway. "Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where do you keep yourself? Haven't seen you at the club in a year!" "Haven't been there in a year--nor mean to!" is the ungracious reply of our hero. "Then, for Heaven's sake," exclaims Hutton, "send some one to take your mail out of the H box! Every time I look for letters I wade through yours." "Tear them up!" calls Holworthy. "They're bills." Hutton now is half-way down the gangplank. "Then your creditors," he shouts back, "must all live at the Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu!" That night an express train shrieking through the darkness carried with it toward San Francisco-- In this how evident is the fine Italian hand of the God of Coincidence! Had Hutton's name begun with an M; had the H in Hutton been silent; had he not carried to the Mauretania a steamer basket for his rich aunt; had he not resented the fact that since Holworthy's election to the Van Sturtevant Club he had ceased to visit the Grill Club--a cure for sleeping sickness might have been discovered; but two loving hearts never would have been reunited and that story would not have been written.