Donaldson took a cold dip and then carefully dressed himself in fresh clothes. Sleep was out of the question. He had never in his life felt more alert in mind and body. He felt as though he could walk farther, hear farther, see farther than ever before. He was more keenly responsive to the perfume of the roses which were now drooping a bit languidly near the window; he was more alive to the delicate traceries of the ferns which banked one corner of the room; more appreciative of the little marine which he had hung near his dresser and—more alive to her into whose life Fate had picked him up and hurled him. He felt the warm pressure of her fingers as though they still rested within his; saw the marvelous quiet beauty of her eyes which had led him so far back into his past. Again out of this past they led him on—on to—he was checked as in his picture of her the ticking clock behind her intruded itself. There stood the sentinel to whom he must give heed. There stood the warning finger pointing to the seventh noon.

Good Lord, he must have more room. He must get out into the dawn—out where he could share these emotions which now surged in upon him with some virginal passion as big and fresh as the new-born day. He crossed to the window and looked out upon the dormant city. The morning light was just beginning to wash out the dark and to sketch in the outlines of buildings and the gray path of the road between them. He watched the new creation of a world. Around him lay a million souls ready to people it—ready to seize it and make it a part of themselves. In a few hours that dim street would be a bridge over which tens of thousands of people would pass to sorrow, to joy; to poverty, to riches; to hate, to love; to death, to life. That was a drama worth looking at. He must get out and rub shoulders with those who were playing their parts. He, too, must play his part in it.

He descended to the office and left instructions with the night clerk to insist upon a message from whoever might call him up. He would be back, he said, in an hour. He had not walked long before he found the city gently astir with life. Passing cars were soon well filled, traffic fretted the streets lately so quiet, while yawning pedestrians reminded him that there were still those who slept. At the end of thirty minutes more of brisk walking, the sky had melted through the entire gamut of colors, and finally settled into a blinding golden blue. A newsboy clicking out of space like a locust, shouted "Extra!" Donaldson gave little heed to the cry until he heard the word "Riverside," and caught the blatant headlines, "Another robbery." With an interest growing out of Saul\'s connection with the case, he skimmed through the story.

Then he tossed his paper away and took his course back to the hotel, glad to forget that sordid bit of drama, in the movement of the crowd now forcing its way to work. But something was lacking in the spectacle this morning. The play of light and color he still saw, the vibrancy of it he still felt, the dramatic quality of it he still appreciated, but still with the consciousness that it lacked something—that it had gone a bit flat. He no longer felt that princely sense of superiority to it—as though it were a gorgeous pageant upon which he was a mere onlooker. He felt now a harrying sense of responsibility towards it. It was as though they called him to join them. He quickened his pace. He must get back to the hotel and see if any message awaited him.

He caught his breath—he must get back to her. That was it. That was what the hurrying passers-by had called to him. Get back to her—what did the morning count until she became a part of it? It was because she had placed the red-blooded actuality of life before his eyes in contrast to the superficial picturesqueness of its expression as he had viewed it yesterday that the show had lost its vividness. She was making him see it again with eyes as they were at twenty. He recoiled. That way lay danger. He must put himself on guard. But from that moment he had but one object in mind—to get back to her as soon as possible.

A telephone message waiting him from Chung reported that no trace could be found of the boy.

He jumped into a cab and went at once to the Arsdale house. Miss Arsdale herself came to the door, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep but her face lighting instantly at sight of him.

"You have news?" she exclaimed.

"No," he answered directly.

She was a woman with whom one might be direct.

"No news may be good news," he added. "They have n\'t been able to locate him in Chinatown. I don\'t think there is a nook there in which he could hide from those people."

"Then," she exclaimed, "he has gone to Cranton."

"Then," he answered deliberately, "I will follow him there."

"No, I could n\'t allow you. It is two hours from town. You have already given generously of your time."

"Miss Arsdale," he said gently, "we of the inner woods must stand by each other. This week is a sort of vacation for me. I am quite free."

Yes, she was she he had seen through the tops of the whispering pines when he had thought it nothing but the blue sky; she was she who had brushed close to him when he had thought it only the rustling of dry leaves. Now that she stood beside him, his heart cried out, "Why did you not come before? Why did you not come a week ago?" If she could have stood for one brief second in that dingy office which had slowly closed in upon him until it squeezed the soul out of him, then he would have forced back the walls again. If only once she had walked by his side t............