Mr. BUMSTEAD'S arms were folded tightly across his manly breast, and the
fine head with the straw hat upon it tilted heavily towards his bosom.

"I see't now," said he softly; "bone han'le 'n ferule. I r'member
threshing 'm with it. I can r'memb'r carry'ng--" Here Mr. BUMSTEAD burst
into tears, and made a frenzied dash at the lock of hair which he again
mistook for a fly.

"To sum up all," concluded Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, shaking him violently by
the shoulder, that he might remain awake long enough to hear it,--"to
sum up all, I am satisfied, from the familiar knowledge of this mystery
I have already gained, that the end will have something to do with
exercise in the Open Air! You'll have to go outdoors for something
important. And now good night."

"Goornight, sir."

Retiring softly to his own room, under the same roof, the author of "The
Amateur Detective" smiled at himself before the mirror with marked
complacency. "You're a long-headed one, my dead-beat friend," he said,
archly, "and your great American Novel is likely to be a respectable
success."

There sounded a crash upon a floor, somewhere in the house, and he held
his breath to listen. It was the Ritualistic organist going to bed.

(_To be Continued._)

[Footnote 1: The few remaining chapters with which it is proposed to