The month of September advanced with early darkening evenings and the clear sharpening of outlines which marks the first breath of autumn. It was easier for Jerry now to see June. In the late afternoons the twilight came quickly and he could mount the long stairs to the Murchison mansion without fear of detection. The Colonel was away. Allen had returned but was much out, and when at home was closeted in a small room of his own that he called his office. The way was clear for Jerry, but he still advanced with slow and cautious steps. The Colonel had been gone over a week when one evening June entered the office to consult with her father about an unpaid household bill for which a tradesman had been dunning her. The shortness of money from which Allen had been suffering since Rosamund’s marriage, was beginning to react upon June. Several times of late the holders of accounts against her father had paid personal visits to the Murchison mansion. She had not yet grasped the hopeless nature of their situation. Even in the town Allen’s insolvency was not known. It was simply rumored that he was “hard-up.” As she opened the door in answer to his “Come in” she smelt the sharp odor of burning paper, and saw that the grate was full of charred fragments. Portions of a man’s wardrobe were scattered about on the various pieces of furniture, and on a sofa against the wall two half-packed valises stood open. Allen sat at his desk, amid a litter of papers, some of which he had been tearing up, others burning. As his eye fell on his daughter he laid his hand over an open letter before him. She came in, holding the bill out toward him, and timidly explaining her entrance and its cause, for of late he had been fiercely irascible. To-night, however, he greeted her with unusual gentleness, and taking the paper from her hand looked at it and laid it aside. “Thompson,” he said; “tell him his account will be settled in a few days. And any of the others that send in bills like this, tell them the same thing.” “Are you going again?” she asked, looking at the valises. “Yes, to-morrow. You can just casually let these fellows know that I’ve gone down to San Francisco to sell some stock, and everything will be satisfactorily settled up when I get back.” “When will you get back?” she asked, not from desire for his presence, but to know what to say to the uneasy tradesmen. “You tell them next week,” he said, “that’ll quiet them. But I may be longer. It may be two or even three weeks. I’ve lots of things to arrange, so don’t you worry if I don’t show up next week or even later.” He tore the letter he had been covering with his hand into small pieces and, rising, threw them into the grate on the smoldering remnants of the others. “Uncle Jim’s down below now,” she said, “you’ll probably see him.”