Man, but he had no time for a word. Miss Bentley was off like a flash,
across the grass, before he could collect his scattered wits. He looked
after her, till, in company with the stout lady, she disappeared from
view. Then with a whimsical expression on his countenance, he took a
leather case from his breast pocket, and opening it glanced at one of
the cards within. It was as if he doubted his own identity and wished
to be reassured.

The name engraved on the card was not McAllister, but Robert Deane
Reynolds.




CHAPTER THREE

_In which the Little Red Chimney appears on the horizon, but without
a clue to its importance. In which also the Candy Man has a glimpse of
high life and is foolishly depressed by it._


Starting from the Y.M.C.A. corner, walking up the avenue a block, then
turning south, you came in a few steps to a modest grey house with a
grass plat in front of it, a freshly reddened brick walk, and flower
boxes in its windows. It was modest, not merely in the sense of being
unpretentious, but also in that of a restrained propriety. You felt it
to be a dwelling of character, wherein what should be done to-day, was
never put off till to-morrow; where there was a place for everything and
everything in it. Yet mingling with this propriety was an all-pervading
cheer that appealed strongly to the homeless passerby.