Gano wondered how long the idea had been in his head, and how long Driscoll had worn a beard, and whether there was a razor in the dressing-case. He shuddered as he glanced surreptitiously about. Wasn't it a little odd that he should find the notion so ghastly? Ah yes, the ugly violence of it! When the sick man got to sleep his friend rummaged his room from end to end, finding nothing to confiscate; and, after all, Driscoll had a fair night. The morning was gray. A fine drizzle shot spitefully down out of a leaden sky. Mary did not appear at the usual hour. Towards noon Gano went down to his own room, worn out, and flung himself on his bed without undressing. He was waked by the noise of a dull fall overhead. He sprang up in a horror of apprehension, broad awake on the instant. He rushed up-stairs and burst in on Driscoll, to find him angrily pushing books off the table on to the floor, as a summons to his friend below. "You sleep like the dead," was his greeting. "Where's Mary?" "Great Cæsar! I don't know." "My watch has run down," Driscoll went on, querulously. Gano set it by his. It was five o'clock. "Don't go to sleep again; let's have some coffee." "All right," answered Gano, yawning. "I believe I'm hungry. I'll go and forage." When he came back with the provisions he brought up some letters and papers. He tumbled everything down on the table. There was nothing for him but some proof from the office, and two letters from America, sent on by Monroe & Co. "Birthday greetings from New Plymouth," he said to himself, as he recognized the familiar old-fashioned hand, the violet ink, and the brown five-cent stamp that had grown to seem foreign to him. He hadn't the curiosity to read birthday commonplaces till the impromptu meal was finished, and Driscoll had become a bore, asking him to look out and see if Mary wasn't coming, the only variation being, "Hark! isn't she on the stairs?" It was only then that, turning the letters over, it occurred to him to doubt if the second was a cousinly salutation. "No, by Jove! Boston postmark!" He tore it open. A brief note from the legal firm of Bostwick & Allen, announcing the death of their client, Aaron Tallmadge, and the bare fact that his entire estate was left to his sole surviving heir and grandson, whose instructions they awaited. The letter had been to Nice and back. It was nearly two weeks old. "By Jove!" Gano dropped the letter on the table among the coffee-cups and bits of _brioche_. "What! is she here?" Driscoll sat up in bed. "No, no; I don't know. Listen to this." He read the letter aloud. "_That's_ all right! _Mille félicitations!_ Look out, like a good fellow, and see if she isn't coming across the court."