his thoughts since the disappearance of the page.

"Yes, Mr. Calendar--?"

"Are you--ah--busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"

"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile robbed the retort of any flavor
of incivility.

Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain his host but a
moment, and readily surrendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood, putting the
latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which Brentwick had
occupied by the fireplace.

"It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood explained in deference to
the other's look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. "I'm
afraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp room--or a damp
cold room--such as you Britishers prefer."

"It is grateful," Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and well cared-for
hands to the warmth. "But you are mistaken; I am as much an American as
yourself."

"Yes?" Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, less
matter-of-course courtesy.

He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr. Calendar; he was
dressed with some care, his complexion was good, and the fullness of his
girth, emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, bespoke a nature
genial, easy-going and sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, were