AN UNINVITED GUEST

Roger Wynrod was the first down to breakfast, and he was feeling far from well. But a glass of bitters, followed by half a grapefruit and a large cup of coffee, made him more nearly his usual cheerful self. He had a word and a smile for each one of the houseparty, as they straggled in, albeit the memory of last night’s disastrous game haunted him uncomfortably. The fact was that once again he faced the necessity of appealing to his sister for further funds, and he had his doubts as to how she would take it.

The meal lacked something of the cheer usually characteristic of Judith Wynrod’s gatherings. Perhaps it was due to the lateness of the hour and the feverishly high stakes of the night before, or perhaps it was only the sultriness of the morning. At any rate, a certain constraint was in evidence, and no one showed any desire to linger longer than was necessary. As one by one her guests withdrew, with more or less perfunctory excuses, Judith remained sprightliness itself, laughingly protesting at the desertion of Faxon, suddenly called to town on private business, and threatening dire things to vivacious little Mrs. Baker if her dentist detained her too long to catch the late afternoon train. But when they were all gone, little lines of weariness crept into her face, and she arose irresolutely and stood for a while watching her brother who, deeply sunk in the columns of baseball news, was unconscious of her scrutiny.

She studied him thoughtfully, the corners of her mouth drooping. It was that feature which modified her otherwise complete resemblance to her brother. She had the same undulant black hair, the same oval face and olive complexion, the same snapping eyes. But where his mouth was merely handsome, or, perhaps, better, affectionate, hers was firm and determined. One might say, in comparing the two, that if Roger wanted anything he would ask for it, whereas Judith would demand it.

She herself was not conscious of anything approaching such masterfulness or determination in her character. She had never experienced the sensation of breaking down opposition. But that was merely because there had never been any opposition offered her. Orphaned when scarce out of childhood, with an incredible fortune and no near relatives, she, like her brother, had had only to ask; it had never been necessary to demand. But of the latent strength of her will there were not lacking evidences.

Be that as it may, her time for action had not yet come. How deeply worried she had grown about Roger, no one guessed, least of all the boy himself. There was no escaping the knowledge that she was in a sense responsible for him; the terms of their father’s will had made her trustee of her brother’s half until he should reach the age of thirty. Of course, she ought to do something, she had often told herself, something radical and decisive; but she was too indolent, too definitely in a groove, too bored with herself and her surroundings, to take that keen interest essential to decisive action. So, with another sigh, she passed through the long window opening on the piazza, and thence to the lawn beyond.

Roger awoke just a minute too late to the fact that they had been alone together and that he had missed the opportunity he had been waiting for. He always preferred to approach Judith on money matters casually, and not as though the occasion were of his own seeking. It certainly was absurd for a man of his years and income to be kept in leading-strings by his own sister. However, there was no help for it, and Judith had always been a good sort, he would say that for her. He needed a cheque, and he might as well get it over with at once.

He found her in the garden, examining some flowers which had just been set out. Flowers were her one hobby, and he knew that a resort to them usually indicated a certain degree of boredom with those around her. But he went straight to the point.

“Say, sis, I’m running into town presently. Can you come in and draw me a cheque? Better make it five hundred this time, to keep me going a while.”

“You lost again last night, Roger?”

“Lost?” He laughed mirthlessly. “Lord! Yes, I lost all right. The family resources can stand it, can’t they?”

“How much?”

“Oh, don’t ask me to figure now. My head’s like a ship in a storm this morning. I don’t know lots.”

“How much, Roger?”

“Oh, come on, sis, I’m in a hurry. Draw the cheque like a good girl ... let’s talk about it to-morrow.” Suddenly he caught the expression on his sister’s face. It was an expression he seldom saw; one that he did not like. “Well, if you have got to have the horrible truth,” he snapped petulantly, “I’m cleaned out ... absolute bust ... I still owe a few hundred to Faxon,” he added reluctantly.

She sighed. “Again.”

“Nothing’s broken right for me. Absolutely nothing. You saw yourself the way the cards treated me last night.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’ve got to be fairly sober to play a decent game of cards, Roger.”

He looked aggrieved. “I was sober almost. Sober enough, anyway. It was luck, I tell you just the beastly rotten luck I always have. I never did have any luck, from the day I was born. Why, any other chap, with my chances ...”

“Roger,” interrupted his sister shortly, as if she had not heard him at all. “Why do you find it necessary to throw away every cent you get? What’s your idea?”

“My idea?”

“Yes. What’s in your head about the future? What are you going to do with yourself? What do you think about about oh, things in general?”

He looked his bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t quite connect, sis ...”

“I want to know if you’ve well I’d like to know ... just how you stand with yourself.”

Her brother eyed her curiously. “What’s struck you anyway?” he demanded. “What’s happened to make you take on like this all of a sudden?”

“Nothing. It’s not sudden. I’ve wanted to have this talk with you for a long time not that it does any good ... we’ll probably drag along the same old way.” She sat thoughtfully silent for a moment. “I’ll draw you a cheque, of course,” she added listlessly. “You must pay up your debts at once. But you do worry me ...”

“Miss Wynrod?”

“What is it, Huldah?”

Roger stopped his discourse and the maid advanced with a card. Judith took it and knitted her brows as she read.

“Who is it, sis?”

“‘Brent Good,’” she read, “’The Workman’s World’”

“Well, he has got nerve,” cried Roger. “That’s that Socialist sheet, isn’t it? Why, they take a crack at us once a week regular. And now they’ve got the gall to send a man out here. Tell him to go to the devil.”

Judith turned to the maid. “Tell him that I am not at home, please, Huldah.”

“I thought that would be the message,” said a cheerful voice beyond the hedge, “so I didn’t wait for it.” A moment later a tall figure of a man emerged and took off his hat with an awkward bow.

“Good morning, Miss Wynrod.” His bronzed, angular face, with its deep-set eyes and wide mouth, softened in a smile which was undeniably pleasing.

Judith surveyed his shabby figure, compounded of all manner of curious depressions and protubérances, and half smiled herself. His cheerfulness was infectious. Also, his appearance was almost comic, which was paradoxical in a representative of so savage an organ as The Workman’s World. Then she recalled the circumstances of his intrusion, and when she spoke her voice was chill.

“I believe you heard my message.”

“Clearly. But if you had known that I had come all the way out from the city on a very hot morning, merely to do you a favour, I don’t think you would have given it.” He surveyed her reproachfully. Then his lips parted again in a smile. “Won’t you give me five minutes, Miss Wynrod please.”

Judith was no exception to the rule that curiosity is a dominant motive in human conduct. Besides, she had already succumbed to the curious stranger’s magnetic geniality.

She hesitated. “Well ...” He took it to be acquiescence.

“Thanks very much. Now could I have this five minutes with you alone?”

Roger frowned at the request, and winked at his sister.

“This is my brother. Anything that concerns me will concern him.”

The stranger’s demeanour was unruffled.

“I see. And I am very glad. What I have to say does concern your brother quite as much as it concerns yourself.”

“Fire away!” interrupted Roger. Curiosity is by no means a distinctively feminine weakness.

The occupant of the shabby brown suit removed his almost equally brown straw hat and laid it on the grass.

“It’s hot, isn’t it,” he smiled. It was difficult to resist that smile. Judith invited him to be seated. And although she herself remained standing, he accepted the invitation with alacrity. She marked that against him, although his next remark appeased her somewhat.

“It’s a long walk up from the station,” he said, carefully removing the abundant perspiration from his craggy forehead. “Pretty road, though,” he added.

Judith was content to let him take his own time. But Roger was more impatient.

“You have something to say to us?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “I have.”

“Well...?”

Mr. Good looked from brother to sister. An expression of half-humorous dismay crossed his face, an expression which both of them caught, but neither understood. Then he drew a long breath and carefully folded his handkerchief. One long, lean forefinger shot out suddenly toward Judith, and the quizzical little smile vanished from his lips.

“You know, Miss Wynrod, of the terrible situation down in the Algoma mines. You know of the bloodshed, the pitched battles between strikers and mine-guards. And worst of all,” With a rapid gesture, contrasting strongly with the languorous slowness of his movements before, he drew a folded newspaper from one of his bulging pockets “You must have read this morning of the burning to death of twenty-two women and children the families of the striking miners.”

Judith had read the story. That is, she had glanced at the headlines, and realising the horror of their import, and at the same time feeling that there was no particular interest for her, had passed on to closer and less unpleasant interests. She remained silent before the tall stranger’s accusing finger. Her curiosity was more piqued than ever. But Roger was angered.

“Well and what of it?” he demanded with ill-concealed truculence.

The tall man turned his serious gaze on Roger.

“I suppose you are familiar with this terrible situation, too,” he said, half interrogatively.

“Suppose I am. What of it. I say?” Roger knew nothing whatever about it, of course, and from the other man’s sudden, half-veiled smile, it was perfectly obvious that he knew that he did not. He turned suddenly from Roger with a faint gesture of his long hand that seemed to sweep that young man totally out of the discussion.

Then Judith, offended, although Roger himself was hardly conscious of the rebuff, spoke for him.

“Yes,” she said with deliberate coldness. “We know all about it. But what of it?”

“Simply this, Miss Wynrod,” said Good crisply, and with a hint of hostility in his manner. “You are a large stockholder in several of the Algoma mines. The blood of those murdered miners is on your head and those innocent women and children burned to death by your hirelings. Whether you know it or not, you have a responsibility for the situation, and I have come here to-day to find out what you are going to do about it all?”

“Do about it?” cried Judith, amazed by the suddenness of his attack. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

The stranger’s mood softened and his voice became quieter.

“I want to find out what you think about things things in general what you are going to do with the great wealth which is yours, what part you are going to play in the changing world. This business at Algoma that’s only a part of the whole. I want to find out what well what you really are?”

Judith could have laughed aloud at the irony of the question which this uncouth stranger was putting to her. It was, almost to the words, the same question she had put to her brother not half an hour before. What did she think about things? Why were people suddenly so interested in what other people thought?

But the similarity was not apparent to Roger. The question caused him no introspection: only anger.

“What right have you to put such impudent questions to us, anyway,” he demanded hotly. “Who the devil are you to intrude on us in this fashion? You’d best get out before I have you put out.”

The tall man made no move to rise from his chair as Roger stood threateningly above him. He merely turned his hands up in a quaint gesture of deprecation.

“Bless your heart, young chap, I’m not putting any questions. If you’ll glance at my card, you’ll notice that my business comes before my name. I’m simply the spokesman of a newspaper ...”

“Newspaper!” sneered Roger. “Do you call that anarchist rag a newspaper?”

But the other man refused to be interrupted. He proceeded equably. “And that newspaper, in turn, is simply the spokesman of the public. It’s the public that wants to know who you are and what you are not I. Personally, to be quite candid, I don’t care a farthing. But ...”

“Well, and what right has the public to come prying into our private affairs?” interrupted Roger again. “It’s none of their business. This is supposed to be a free country. Why don’t you give law-abiding private citizens a little freedom and privacy? You force your way in where you aren’t wanted and insult us and then say it’s because the public wants to know. What business is it of the public’s what we do and what we think?”

The stranger smiled benignly.

“My dear young man,” he said calmly, as he folded up his newspaper and fitted it into his pocket. “That’s old, old stuff. You’re ’way behind the times. That rode into the discard on the tumbrels of the Revolution. As an individual, nobody cares a rap about you. As the possessor of a great fortune, the public is very keenly interested in your lightest thought. But I’m not going to attempt to give you a lesson in elementary history. Your sister can, I am sure, do that for me.”

He turned to her with the same galling indifference that had so offended Roger before. She could not but admire the assurance of his manner in the face of such open hostility.

“Miss Wynrod,” he went on calmly, “I do hope you will talk to me frankly. Won’t you tell me what you honestly think of your relations, first to this business at Algoma, and then ...”

“Don’t say a word,” interrupted Roger. “Remember the sheet he represents.”

Judith did remember, and the recollection made her angry. She smarted still at the cartoons and denunciatory editorials in which she had so frequently been singled out for attack.

“Don’t you think it’s just a little curious, Mr. Good,” she asked quietly, “that you should come to me in this way when you must know how your own paper has treated me?”

A pained expression crossed his eyes.

“It is a little queer,” he admitted. “And honestly I don’t like the roasts they give you any better than you do. But don’t you see that in a way you’re responsible for them? You never come back. You just hide. People don’t know what you think. All they see is the results what you do or what they think you do ... and that amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Now if you’d just discuss the Algoma situation, and give me some idea of what you think its causes are, and what part you think you ought to play in making things better, it’ll go a long way toward making the public understand you better and sympathise with you. They think that life’s a rose garden to you, you know. They never dream that you have troubles, too. You never tell them. All you show is the contented side of your life, the luxury, the pleasure, the idleness. Why not take them into your confidence?”

Of the shabby stranger’s earnestness there could be no doubt. His long arms waved and the perspiration welled out on his cheeks as he strove to present his arguments. At intervals Roger sneered audibly, though Judith listened attentively. But when he paused for breath, she shook her head.

“I sympathise with your point of view,” she said with an effort at finality. “But I have nothing to say.”

But he refused to be put off. “But Miss Wynrod, can’t you see what an opportunity I’m giving? Here’s a chance for you to set yourself right with the people. They think you live for nothing but money. They think you could fix everything up into an imitation of Heaven if you only weren’t greedy. Why don’t you show them that you are doing all you can, that you’re thinking about things, that you’re not the heartless, selfish, narrow, stupid creature they think you are. This is an opportunity to make yourself loved instead of hated. Why, Miss Wynrod, if you’ll make a statement, I’ll bring the proofs to you to correct. I won’t put a comma in that you don’t want. Wouldn’t that be better than to go back and write a story and say that when I asked you what you thought about the burning to death of twenty-two women and children in one of your own mines, by your own hirelings, you replied that you had nothing to say?”

Roger was speechless with wrath at this torrent of what he thought was abuse, failing to distinguish between the general and the specific. It was only by an effort of will that he restrained himself from laying violent hands on this threadbare creature with the eloquent tongue, who, it appeared to him, was deliberately insulting his sister. But Judith herself felt no rancour. Indeed she felt the magnetism of the reporter more strongly with each word, and it never occurred to impugn the sincerity of his outburst nor its justice. Her face struggled painfully in an effort to be cold and impassive as she barely whispered again her refusal to speak.

Good studied her for a moment. Then he smiled, quite cheerfully. All his hot tensity vanished suddenly.

“I think I understand,” he said quietly. “It isn’t that you won’t talk to me but you can’t. You can’t tell me what you think about these things because you haven’t thought about them. But you’re going to, Miss Wynrod, you’re going to. Some day I shall come back, and then you will talk to me. Perhaps you will even ask me to come back.”

Roger laughed at that, but Judith was silent. She had a curious and not at all pleasant sense that this curious, contradictory, talkative stranger, with his grotesque form and clothes, and bad manners, not to say impudence, knew her better than she knew herself. He was perfectly right. She tried to tell herself that her refusal to talk to him was dictated by a finely conscious dignity. But she knew very well that such was not the case. He had indeed spoken truly when he said that she could not talk because she had not thought. She had not. And she was not at all incredulous at his prophecy that she might one day call him back. She would think more about these matters she had begun, perforce but none the less certainly, to think about them already.

The reporter, still studying her quizzically, and so intently as to make her consciously uncomfortable, rose slowly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wynrod. I’ve had a wasted trip and yet I haven’t. You’re beginning to think. Some day you will talk. Perhaps I shall be present. I am glad we have become friends you, too, Mr. Wynrod. Good morning.”

In spite of his awkwardness, his movements were rapid. It seemed almost like a fairy disappearance, so quickly was he out of sight behind the hedge. Only his dilapidated straw hat could be seen bobbing rhythmically out of view.

“Well, of all cranks,” laughed Roger. “And the nerve of him. Did you hear his calm assumption that we have now become fast friends? Can you beat it?”

But Judith said: “It’s a long road to the station. I should have sent the car.” And then, suddenly feeling an unaccountable distaste for her brother’s society, she went thoughtfully into the house.

In the hall she encountered Faxon, in search of her. He had to make the 10.46, and had none too much time to get to the station.

“Joris will take you down,” she said mechanically, when he had explained.

“He’s taken Alder and some of the others up to the golf club.”

“And Picard?”

“He’s off somewhere, too.”

“How stupid. Well, I’ll take you down myself. Let’s see. Oh, we can make it easily. It’s only a quarter past now. I’ll have the electric around in a moment.”

While she waited for the car to be brought around, she found herself responding perfunctorily to Mr. Faxon’s running comment on all sorts of things in general, conscious that for the first time he was rather tiresome. She had never taken his attentions to herself seriously. She knew that he had a certain interest in pretty Della Baker rather warmer than was permissible in the case of a married woman, and she shut her eyes to the fact that her house gave them opportunities to meet that they would not otherwise have had. Yet she believed there was no real harm in Della, and as for Faxon, well, he had flirted with so many women in his time that she could not take him altogether seriously either with herself or with others. And he usually succeeded in being amusing. But to-day she had no desire to be amused. She was thinking earnestly for perhaps the first time in her life ... wondering what she really did think about things in general.

As she seated herself in the car and Faxon climbed in beside her, she grew more silent, and her thoughts strayed very far away from Braeburn. In spite of a very considerable reluctance on her part, they persisted in wandering to an ugly little collection of shanties, piled helter-skelter in the midst of lowering hills, where men went down into the earth and came up something less than men where twenty-two ... over and over again that wretched phrase persisted in repeating itself, until she wanted to scream. Why had she ever allowed that disagreeable stranger to spoil her day?

Suddenly, as if to punctuate her thoughts, she caught sight of a familiar figure marching jerkily along the dusty road in front of her. He was even more grotesque from behind, but there was something pathetic in the weary droop of his shoulders. She felt acutely conscious of the comfort of her vehicle.

Two or three times as she neared the angular pedestrian, she rang her bell. But he either did not hear it or he did not notice it; for he kept on in his uneven stride, with his head bent well forward, and his bedraggled straw almost over his ears.

She was almost upon him, and the narrowness of the road showed little clearance between him and the machine, when she rang again. The sound seemed to startle and confuse him. His head rose with a jerk and he stopped short. Then he stepped, with the utmost deliberateness, directly in the path of the approaching car.

With all the power in her lithe body, Judith jammed on both brakes. But it was too late. There was a crash of glass as Faxon’s cane went through the window. On her knees where she had been thrown by the suddenness of the stop she heard his “damned ass!” gritted through his teeth. She remembered afterward that she had wondered whether the epithet was for herself or for the stranger in the road. But at the time she heard only the horrible crunch of steel against flesh, the muffled snap as of a broken twig, and a low groan, twice repeated.

Faxon was out of the car in an instant, and standing in the road, his face white as chalk, frantically motioning to her to reverse. In a daze she put on the power, and when she had moved back a few feet, followed him outside.

But her daze was only momentary. For just an instant she stood stupidly watching Faxon struggle with a dreadfully inanimate brown mass. Then she became herself.

“Here,” she cried. “In the car quick.” And when Faxon seemed indecisive, she laid hold of the unconscious figure herself and helped to lift it into the machine.

As she climbed in after it, Faxon made as if to follow her. But she waved him off.

“You can make that train if you hurry,” she said sharply. “It’s only a little way to the station.” And with that she tossed his cane to him, and all but kicked his bag after it.

Faxon expostulated, but she was too occupied in turning her car around to heed him. The sudden sharp hum of the motor as she jumped from speed to speed made him realise the futility of his protests, and so, philosophically, but not a little shaken by the suddenness of it all, he picked up his bag and stick and made for the station.

Judith, as she sped homeward, did not trust herself to glance at the crumpled figure on the floor beside her. And over and over again, as she urged the car to its utmost, she kept repeating an almost wordless prayer

“I mustn’t faint ... I mustn’t faint ... I mustn’t....”

She was almost home when the brown bundle stirred faintly, and she caught a weak groan. Still she dared not look. It was only when she was forced to, that she turned her eyes in answer to a weakly whispered question.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” she breathed, more to herself than to him, “so glad ... I thought....” Then, a little louder “Where are you hurt?”

“My leg, I think,” said the injured man, in a voice that was a pitiful travesty of the one that had talked to her so earnestly in her garden, only a few minutes before. “It it hurts like the dickens.”

She rang her bell frantically all the way up the drive to the house, and there were half a dozen excited people to meet her. She was far calmer than they and she superintended the removal of Good from the car with perfect impassiveness. But he had lost consciousness again, and the sight of his bloodless face, deathly pallid save for the crimson splash on one cheek, almost unnerved her.

“Take him to the grey room, Portis,” she said quietly. “And tell somebody to get Dr. Ruetter. He’s staying at Mrs. Craven’s. Please hurry.” It was very hard to keep her voice calm, but she managed to accomplish it.

Finally, when she could think of nothing else to do, and to the very great amazement of everyone, she suddenly collapsed in a dead faint.

When she came to herself again, Dr. Ruetter was standing over her.

“Well, young lady,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve made quite a morning of it.”

Her first thought was of Good.

“Tell me,” she cried anxiously. “How is he? Is he very badly hurt? Will he die?”

“Unquestionably,” smiled the Doctor. But when she sank back with a groan, he added, “just like we all will.”

“Oh. Then he isn’t fatally hurt?”

“Bless you, no! Broken leg, that’s all. Bad break, I’ll admit compound fracture but nothing to cause alarm.”

“But he’s got to go to a hospital,” spoke up Roger, whom she had not noticed before.

“The hospital? Who said so?”

“The Doctor. He says ...”

“Oh, by all means,” said the Doctor, quite as if the prospect gave him personal pleasure. “This isn’t a bruised finger, you know. That chap won’t be up and around for three weeks or a month at least. The hospital’s the place for him.”

“What hospital?” asked Judith thoughtfully.

“Judging by his clothes, I should say the County.”

Judith sat bolt upright at that.

“He will not go to the County Hospital,” she said with finality. “He won’t go to any hospital.”

“Don’t get excited, sis,” said Roger with soothing intent. But his words had the opposite effect.

“He’s going to stay right where he is,” she continued. “It’s the least I can do, after nearly killing him.”

“That’s very kind and good, of course,” said the Doctor in obedience to a glance from Roger. “But I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. He’ll be laid up for a long time six weeks, perhaps. And really, he’d be better off in a hospital.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Judith sharply. “Is he going to need treatment?”

“Well, no,” admitted the Doctor in some confusion.

“It’s purely a matter of convalescence. He’ll be far more comfortable here. He’ll stay here. Now please go away and let me alone. I’m all fagged out.”

The Doctor pleaded and cajoled, even, in obedience to further glances from Roger, ventured to order. But Judith merely closed her eyes and refused to listen to him at all. Finally, being something of a philosopher, he wished her a very pleasant good morning, and went on his way.

Roger continued to storm, though quite ineffectually.

“Why, confound it, sis,” he cried in exasperation, “what’s the sense in playing lady bountiful to a fellow who’ll make use of his first day of health to enter a whopping big suit for damages against you?”

“Does he strike you as that sort of a chap?” she asked mildly.

“You know how he feels toward people like us. He told you, himself. He’d think it a sin to let a chance go by to soak us. He’d probably feel justified by the way we treated him this morning.”

“We weren’t very cordial, were we?”

“Cordial! I told him to get out before I threw him out. Why, he’s as full of grievances as a cat is fleas. Mark my words, the only gratitude you’ll get will be a good fat damage suit. And you know how much of a chance you’d have against him.”

“Well, he’d deserve something, wouldn’t he?” asked Judith. “He’ll probably lose his position if he’s going to be laid up for six weeks.”

Roger looked at her in amazement.

“Say, are you going daffy?” Then he reflected for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea, sis. I might give him a couple of hundred in exchange for a quit claim. That’s what the railroads do in their accidents. A hundred or two will look bigger to him right now than a thousand next year. I’ll get him before any shyster lawyer does. I’ll fix it up, all right. Don’t you worry, sis. That crazy anarchist won’t trouble you ...”

But Judith was not worrying. Her eyes had closed again in a perfectly obvious simulation of sleep. For a moment Roger looked a little hurt by this indifferent reception of his idea. Then he tiptoed quietly out of the room.

Full of his plan, he hastened to the grey room, where the tall stranger lay, all his cheerful smile lost in the twisted grin of pain.

But he managed somehow to smile, after a fashion at least, when Roger came in.

“Hello,” he said, with something of his characteristic buoyancy.

“Hello,” said Roger, trying to be casual. “How you feeling?”

“Ever see a hog skinned?” grinned the tall man. “That’s how.”

Roger’s sympathies were stirred. He was really a very tender-hearted lad. But he was not to be swerved from his purpose. He had a duty to perform.

“Bad business,” he said seriously, seating himself beside the bed. Then he nodded to the maid, who had been detailed to act as nurse, to leave the room. When she had closed the door, he turned confidentially to Good.

“I say, old man,” he said with something of embarrassment in his manner, “you’re going to be laid up for a good stretch, you know, and you may lose your job and all that ”

“Tweedledee,” said the tall man. “You can’t lose what you haven’t got.”

Roger was at a loss just how to answer that sally, so he decided to overlook it.

“You’re bound to be considerably put out,” he went on.

“Considerably is right,” chuckled Good.

Roger found it very difficult, much more so than he had expected, to talk to this curious creature. But he was persistent.

“Well, we don’t intend that you shall lose anything,” he said in as friendly a way as he could. But it was a little too friendly. It was the tone with which one offers a tip. “I’ll give you a cheque for two hundred dollars all the doctor’s bills paid and ” He drew a cheque book from his pocket and unscrewed his fountain pen. “How shall I make it out?”

Good raised his hand. “Cut that,” he said shortly.

Roger misconstrued the gesture. It irritated him.

“Don’t you think it’s enough?” he asked bluntly.

But the tall man only smiled.

“Oh, forget it,” he said. “Why should you give me any money. You can pay the bills if you want to. Guess you’ll have to if the medico’s going to get anything. That’ll call it square, I guess.”

“How about the six weeks’ lay-up?”

“I’ll get a good rest and plenty to eat at the county’s expense. Why should I worry?” smiled Good.

“Then you refuse to accept a cheque?” demanded Roger.

“Of course.”

Roger was so full of his own suspicions that it never occurred to him to question their justice. And the blithe and offhand way in which this ragamuffin declined his cheque only seemed to confirm his belief that he was playing for higher stakes. He lost his patience entirely.

“You’d rather wait till you can get some quack lawyer,” he sneered, “and then try to bleed us for a big wad, eh?”

The man on the bed opened his eyes in amazement.

“Good Lord,” he cried, “what kind of people have you been brought up with?”

“Well, just let me tell you, my friend,” went on Roger hotly, “that you won’t get a cent by that game. My sister has a witness to prove that the accident was all your own fault....”

“Well,” interrupted the stranger, a little wearily, “that’s right. What are you fussing about?”

It was Roger’s turn to open his eyes in amazement.

“You mean you admit it was your fault?” he stammered.

“Of course. I was thinking about something else usually am when your sister rang her bell. I didn’t hear it, at first. When I did, I well I don’t know guess I just stepped the wrong way. It’s my own fault for getting chewed up. Don’t worry, my boy, there won’t be any damage suit. I haven’t any claim besides I’m a good sight more afraid of lawyers than you are.”

Roger stared in silent astonishment. “You are a queer one,” he ejaculated finally.

The injured man smiled, a little sadly.

“You’re awfully young to be so suspicious of your fellow man,” he said almost to himself. Then, more briskly and cheerfully, he addressed himself to the very surprised and humiliated Roger.

“Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s tackle the next question. When are you going to ship me into town?”

“We’re not going to ship you in,” answered Roger, very chastened.

Good lifted his eyebrows. “Not going to? What’s the answer?”

“My sister intends to have you stay where you are.” Then he added in a more friendly tone, “It’s the least we can do for you, you know.”

“Well, well!” Good’s face was illumined with smiles. “I say, that’s fine,” he cried. “Most extraordinary, too,” he added, under his breath. Then he surveyed the neatness and harmonious quiet of the room. His eyes, with a little gleam in them, roamed comfortably into every corner. “It’s worth being laid up to get a taste of this,” he cried naively. “You see, I’ve never seen anything just like this,” he added, almost apologetically, with the little deprecatory lift of his hands that had already fastened itself upon Roger as characteristic. “It’s too good to be true!”

For a moment Roger was silent at this display of ingenuousness. Then he spoke as he would have expected to be spoken to, had their positions been reversed.

“I’ll send in for your clothes and things if you’ll give me your address....”

The tall man’s expression of content faded. It was succeeded by a look of what might be taken for pain, or embarrassment, or both.

“They’re all here,” he said quietly. “It wouldn’t be worth while to send after a toothbrush and a comb, would it. That’s all there is home.”

“Oh I beg your pardon,” said Roger, reddening. Then he cursed himself for the tactlessness of the apology.

“Nothing to blush at, my boy,” cried Good. “Lend me a suit of pajamas, instead.”

Roger rose hastily. He welcomed the opportunity to escape from this curious creature, who said such curious things, and who possessed but one suit of clothes. As very rarely happened, he found himself at a loss for words.

“Can I do anything else?” he asked from the doorway.

“Yes you can thank your sister from the bottom of my heart for having introduced me to her motor-car ... and this ” he waved his hand around comprehensively, and smiled.

“Anything else?”

“Well, you might call up The World and tell them that I won’t be down to-morrow. You might add that I fell down on the Wynrod story ... that I’m in the camps of the Persians.”

Then, when Roger looked puzzled, he yawned luxuriously and stretched his arms over his head. And after another yawn, he closed his eyes.

“That’s all, thanks. Tell ’em not to wake me for a week....”