“Oh, well, don’t sigh over it,” said Emmons. “If you feel so badly about it, I’ll go myself.” “No,” she returned firmly, “I will see Mr. Overton to-morrow. I promise you I will, James.” There was a short pause. “Now about that bay-window,” Emmons began; but glancing at his betrothed he was surprised to observe tears in her eyes. She rose to her feet. “Suppose you go home, James,” she said not unkindly. “I feel tired. I think I’ll go to bed.” “I can see that blackguard worries you,” said Emmons; but he obeyed. Yet strangely enough after his departure she did not go to bed, but sat on in the little parlor trying to read. But her chin was often raised from her book to listen for footsteps. At eleven she went upstairs, but she was still awake when after midnight she heard Vickers return. Chapter IX Procrastination is the thief of more than time;--it is only too often the thief of opportunity. Vickers, who knew very well that he might have made his escape any time in the course of the last month, if only he had been sure he wanted to, now saw before him the prospect of making a more hurried flight than suited his purpose. He had allowed himself to drift, had asked how the present situation was to end, without attempting any answer. And now he had to give an answer within a few days. He found Overton in his library. Books, mostly in calf-skin covers, stood on shelves that ran almost to the ceiling. Overton was reading--not one of those heavy volumes, but a modern novel in a flaming cover. “Well, young man,” he said, looking up without surprise, for it was no longer unusual for Vickers to come in like this, “I warn you that I am in a romantic mood. I don’t know that I care to talk to common, everyday mortals like you. I wish I had lived when men wore ruffles and a sword. Then you got romance at first hand.” “Well, I’ll tell you what it is, Balby G. Overton,” said Vickers, “there is just one place you don’t want romance, and that is right here in your own life, and that is where I have got it at the moment, and I’ve come to you to help me get it out.” “You talk as if it were a bad tooth,” returned Overton. “Will you extract it?” The other smiled. “Not a little of a lawyer’s business,” he said, “is extracting romance from the lives of his clients.” “It’s a lawyer’s business, too, to know when people are lying, and when they are telling the truth, isn’t it? I hope so, for I am going to tell you a yarn which sounds uncommonly impossible.” “You encourage me to think it may be amusing.” Vickers laughed. “Well, it begins well,” he said. “In the first place, I am not Bob Lee.” “Indeed,” said Overton. “Let me congratulate you.” It was impossible to tell, from his tone, whether he believed the statement or not, and Vickers made no attempt to determine, but went on with his story.