night, isn't it?" said he pleasantly.

A little later he reached the main road and paused a moment on the
bridge, as though to sum up the thoughts and imaginings that had
occupied him on the way along.

"It's a queer world," said John Garfield Madison profoundly to the
turbid little stream that flowed beneath his feet. "I wonder why some
of us are born with brains--and some are born just plain damned fools!"

He went on again, arrived at the Congress Hotel, and, discovering
through the window that the leading citizens of Needley were still in
session, negotiated the back entrance. On the way upstairs he
stumbled--quite inadvertently--and stopped to listen.

"There he be now," announced Hiram Higgins' voice excitedly. "Goin' up
to his room to meditate. Knew he'd come back feelin' like that. I be
goin' out there to-morrow to see the Patriarch myself."

Madison smiled, mounted the remaining stairs, entered his room, and
lighted his lamp.

"Having got my hand in at writing," he remarked, "I guess I'd better
keep it up and write Helena--Vail."

He extracted a pad of writing paper and an envelope from the tray of his
trunk, his fountain pen from his pocket, and, drawing his chair to the
table and laying down his cigar reluctantly at his elbow, began to
write. At the end of fifteen minutes, he tilted back his chair,
relighted the stub of his cigar, and critically read over his epistle.