“I know! Amusement, sneers, skepticism, anger--all are one to me. I ask nothing, expect nothing, desire nothing, and fear nothing from you, young sir. A queer experience this--eh? An unexplained and apparently unconcluded little game? A plot foiled by your cleverness--what? A joke? A piece of lunacy? Call it anything you wish. Again I thank you. Good evening, Mr. Merriwether.” And Tom was politely ushered from the room by the strange man and from the house by the four over-intelligent footmen. III Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his amiability that after the coffee he said: “Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way all you have to do is to tell me what it is.” “Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking--” Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to think--alone. Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and somebody to love? Why had the springtime--since the night before--come to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes, tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks, so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking--if he would be honest with himself--of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was. He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his father noticed it. “What's up, Tom?” “What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking.” “Terrible thing, my boy--thinking at meal-time,” said E. H. Merriwether, with a self-conscious look of badinage. “Yes, it is. I'll quit.” “Is it anything about which you need advice--or help, my boy?” said the great little railroad dynast, very carelessly. His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as though it were a weakness.