before. It was full daylight when my guest had arrived; she could have
had no need for artificial light. Wait--there lay a long, black object
on the white cover of the dressing-table--a curling iron!

In the hall I ran into the Skeptic.

"I beg your pardon," he cried under his breath. "I came up for her
scarf. She said it was just inside her door, on her trunk. May I go in?"

"I'll get it for you," said I, and turned inside. The Skeptic stood
outside the door, looking into the dimness. I could not find the scarf.
I would not turn up the light. I searched and searched vainly.

"Let me give you something to see by," said the Skeptic, and before I
could prevent him he had bolted into the room and turned up the lamp.
"Here it is," said he, and caught up some article of apparel from the
dressing-table. "Oh, no--this must be--a sash," said he, and dropped it.
He stood looking about him.

"Go away," said I sternly. "I'll find it."

"I don't think you will," said he, "in this--er--this--pandemonium."

I walked over to the dressing-table and put out the lamp. "Now will you
go away?" said I.

"You were expeditious," said he, making for the hall, and stumbling over
something as he went, "but not quite expeditious enough. Never mind
about the scarf. I think I'll let the Philosopher take the Girl Guest to
walk--the Gay Lady's good enough for me. I say"--as he moved toward the