But Polly knew better. In her mind's eye she saw those fingers, rendered doubly nervous by the fearful cerebral excitement, grasping at first mechanically, even thoughtlessly, a bit of twine with which to secure the window; then the ruling habit strongest through all, the girl could see it; the lean and ingenious fingers fidgeting, fidgeting with that piece of string, tying knot after knot, more wonderful, more complicated, than any she had yet witnessed. "If I were you," she said, without daring to look into that corner where he sat, "I would break myself of the habit of perpetually making knots in a piece of string." He did not reply, and at last Polly ventured to look up--the corner was empty, and through the glass door beyond the desk, where he had just deposited his few coppers, she saw the tails of his tweed coat, his extraordinary hat, his meagre, shrivelled-up personality, fast disappearing down the street. Miss Polly Burton (of the _Evening Observer_) was married the other day to Mr. Richard Frobisher (of the _London Mail_). She has never set eyes on the man in the corner from that day to this. FINIS End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Man in the Corner, by Baroness Orczy