daring. Indeed, I fear he was somewhat disappointed when the stranger
peacefully turned into the junk shop at the corner and left them to
pursue their way.

They at last stopped before some business offices on a central
thoroughfare, where Randolph had a room on the third story. When they
had climbed the flight of stairs he unlocked a door and disclosed a
good-sized apartment which had been intended for an office, but which
was now neatly furnished as a study and bedroom. Miss Avondale smiled at
the singular combination.

"I should fancy," she said, "you would never feel as if you had quite
left the bank behind you." Yet, with her air of protection and mature
experience, she at once began to move one or two articles of furniture
into a more tasteful position, while Randolph, nevertheless a little
embarrassed at his audacity in asking this goddess into his humble
abode, hurriedly unlocked a closet, brought out the portmanteau, and
handed her the letter and photograph.

Woman-like, Miss Avondale looked at the picture first. If she
experienced any surprise, she repressed it. "It is LIKE Bobby," she said
meditatively, "but he was stouter then; and he's changed sadly since he
has been in this climate. I don't wonder you didn't recognize him. His
father may have had it taken some day when they were alone together. I
didn't know of it, though I know the photographer." She then looked at
the letter, knit her pretty brows, and with an abstracted air sat down
on the edge of Randolph's bed, crossed her little feet, and looked
puzzled. But he was unable to detect the least emotion.

"You see," she said, "the handwriting of most children who are learning