Richard occupied a rather luxurious suite of bachelor-apartments on a side-street not very far up-town. As he sat before an open fire after dinner that evening awaiting the arrival of John Fenton, he felt thoroughly contented with himself and the world at large. He had come to New York unknown and unheralded, and lo! the great city, so indifferent to the advent of most strangers, had opened its arms to him, had patted him on the back, had told him that he was clever, and therefore welcome. The great metropolis has an insatiable hunger for able men in all lines of life, but it is often blind for many years to the merits of certain citizens who need only an opportunity to become prominent. Once in a great while, however, it seizes a very young man by the collar of his coat, as it were, and thrusts him forward in some field of endeavor, and the multitude of older men who have failed to take advantage of their life-tide at its flood, look on with mingled amazement and envy at the lucky youth. Chance had thrown Richard Stoughton into the front ranks of journalism; and as he watched the flickering blaze before him, or followed the smoke from his cigar with his eye, he felt that he was worthy of the position he held, and that the metropolis had not made a blunder when it had picked him out as one entitled to applause. The door behind Richard opened softly, and John Fenton entered the room and quietly seated himself at the other side of the fireplace. “Have a cigar, John,” said the youth, deserting his air-castles for the stern realities that Fenton always seemed to carry with him. Turning to offer his guest a light, Richard was surprised to see that Fenton was garbed in evening dress. “My miracle is taking on a chronic form,” he said to himself. Then aloud he remarked,-- “I thank you, John, for not disappointing me. I have several weighty problems on my mind, and you’re the only man of my acquaintance who can help me out.” Fenton puffed away silently for a few moments. “Go on,” he said at length, rather coldly. “You want to talk to me about--what?” “About the single-tax theory, John, as applied to affairs of the heart.” Fenton glanced sternly at his companion, but there was no sign of mischief on Richard’s face. He was gazing at the fire as though trying to read in the dancing flames the answer to the riddle that annoyed him. “Explain yourself,” said Fenton suspiciously. “Well,” went on Richard with studied calmness, “you see, I am trying to get into touch with all the new ideas that have a marked influence on the life of our times. I am, however, especially interested in watching the effect of theories on the actions of my friends. It’s almost a new science, I think. I must look up some Greek roots and give it a name. Perhaps I’ll go down to fame as the inventor of a new and very useful line of study.”