of his father's wealth, that Blair, in any event, would feel called upon
to do much more than make a frolic of life. No one, indeed, had been
more taken aback than had his father to find him, a year after
graduation, drudging over the assistant editor's desk of a struggling
magazine the payroll of which, to put it mildly, offered no financial
inducements.

"It's good practice for me, though, - quickest way to learn," was all he
vouchsafed when the older man remonstrated.

Yet, had that same father, shrewd capitalist that he was, but taken the
trouble to reason back from premises evident enough, he might have been
the first to realize that this tall son of his, with the keen gray eyes
and a face the strength of which was but increased by the high cheek
bones and squarely molded chin, was scarcely the type of man to sit idly
by enjoying the fruits of another's labor.

And now, after two years more of grinding apprenticeship, he had in mind
something much bigger than the slender volume of verse, - an adventure
into authorship more suited to his metal, - a story for which an intense
personal sympathy would furnish fitting atmosphere, with the final spur
to his ambition a letter from the Atlantic even at the moment stowed
safely away in his pocket.

Some two hours later, after an unexpectedly excellent dinner in the
luxurious dining room, he sauntered over to the hotel desk. There was no
more than the faintest probability that a clerk of the St. Catherine
would be able to tell him how to reach a secret cavern bower above the
Bay of Moons; still, he had to enter an opening wedge somewhere. The one
man on duty was for the moment occupied with another guest, and Blair,