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Douglas placed the door ajar, and walked over to the well-filled bookcases, and, after some deliberation, selected a book and sat down in the revolving chair. The book held his attention and he read on and on. He finished the last chapter and tossed the volume on the table, then glanced at the clock, the dial of which registered two-thirty. The upholstered davenport, which stood with its back resting against the length of the desk table, looked inviting, and Douglas rose, extinguished the light, and walked over and lay down.

After placing several sofa cushions under his head he pulled the eiderdown quilt over him, as he felt chilly. The added warmth and the softness of the couch were most grateful to his tired body. He was drowsily conscious of the clock striking; then his last thought was of Eleanor Thornton—beautiful Eleanor Thornton—strange that they should meet again; why, he had actually run away from her in Paris—a few minutes more and he was sound asleep.

“He made out a shadowy form just ahead of him and