"No--serve it in the library," said Granice, rising. He led the
way back to the curtained confidential room. He was really
curious to hear what Ascham had to tell him.

While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about
the library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes
and bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a
headline caught his eye.


"ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO
PLAY POETRY.
"THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER
POET."


He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young
author he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poetic
drama," dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick,
disgusted. It was true, then--she WAS "game"--it was not the
manner but the matter she mistrusted!

Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely
lingering. "I shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up
myself."

He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was
going on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want
him out of the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming