fashion of the period, inhabited. Certainly, with a door fronting
a thoroughfare, and a neighbor gradually approaching him, he would
not feel lonely or lack excitement.

He drew his arm-chair to the fire and tried to realize the all-
pervading yet evasive Tappington. There was no portrait of him in
the house, and although Mrs. Brooks had said that he "favored" his
sister, Bly had, without knowing why, instinctively resented it.
He had even timidly asked his employer, and had received the vague
reply that he was "good-looking enough," and the practical but
discomposing retort, "What do you want to know for?" As he really
did not know why, the inquiry had dropped. He stared at the
monumental crystal ink-stand half full of ink, yet spotless and
free from stains, that stood on the table, and tried to picture
Tappington daintily dipping into it to thank the fair donors--
"daughters of Rebecca." Who were they? and what sort of man would
they naturally feel grateful to?

What was that?

He turned to the window, which had just resounded to a slight tap
or blow, as if something soft had struck it. With an instinctive
suspicion of the propinquity of the adjoining street he rose, but a
single glance from the window satisfied him that no missile would
have reached it from thence. He scanned the low bushes on the
level before him; certainly no one could be hiding there. He
lifted his eyes toward the house on the left; the curtains of the
nearest window appeared to be drawn suddenly at the same moment.
Could it have come from there? Looking down upon the window-ledge,
there lay the mysterious missile--a little misshapen ball. He