He fumbled in his pocket and gave the youngster a coin. "See that it's
sent instantly--like lightning. Run!" and the sharp little son of New
York was off before the last word was well out.

Half an hour later, to Reed waiting at his office in Broadway
impatiently, there strolled in a good-looking and leisurely young man
with black clothes on his back and peace and good-will on his face.
"Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Carty," he remarked in friendly tones.
"Plenty of time, isn't there?"

"No, there isn't," his cousin answered, and there was a touch of snap in
the accent. "Really, Rex, you ought to grow up and be responsible. It
was distinctly arranged that you should call here for me at six, and now
it's a quarter before seven."

"Couldn't remember the hour or the place to save my life," the younger
man asserted earnestly. "I'm just as sorry as I can be, Carty. You see I
did remember we were to dine at Martin's. So much I got all right--and
that was something, wasn't it, Carty?" he inquired with an air of
wistful pride, and the frown on the face of the other dissolved in
laughter.

"Rex, there's no making you over--worse luck. Come along. I've got to go
home to dress after dinner you see, before we make our call. You'll do,
on the strength of being a theological student."

The situation was this: Reginald Fairfax, in his last year at the
Theological Seminary, in this month of May, and lately ordained, had
been seriously spoken of as assistant to the Rector of the great church