smiling, "suggests magic."

"Magic, pure, deep and white," confirmed the beggar promptly. "What are your plans for to-day?"

"A trip on business to New York."

"Good! How long?"

"Twenty-four hours," said the precise E. Van Tenner.

"Do you carry a pocketbook—or your money loose?"

"Loose."

"Take this purse. It calls for but one condition: That you keep all your money—bills and change—in it and spend only from it. If this is faithfully done, within twenty-four hours you will have saved enough to buy one—no, two stamps; which at the present price will come to eight dollars and twenty-eight cents."

To Van Tenner's skeptical eye the purse placed in his hand seemed an ordinary-enough affair—a cheap, flattish wallet, without distinguishing mark until he opened it and found, set into the flap, a celluloid tablet flanked by a small pencil. Across the top of the tablet ran the legend "What's the good?"

"A colloquial expression of the philosophy of indifference," observed E. Van Tenner with a smile.

"On the contrary," retorted the beggar, "it is a serious and profound inquiry into first causes. The magic inheres in it. Under-stand, now: You are not to scrimp and scrooge at all. Parsimony by people who can afford to spend does harm, not good. And this magic, being white magic, works only for good. But if you undertake to remove money from that purse for any purely wasteful purpose the magic will be loosed; and you shall see what you shall see—or, more accurately, feel what you shall feel."

"The purse will stir in my pocket, I suppose," laughed E. Van Tenner.

"Much deeper," replied the beggar gravely. "In your conscience."

"I accept your challenge," said the other. He emptied his pockets and deposited all his money under the guardianship of the inquiry "What's the good?"

"To start from the moment when I leave my office for the train."

"I shall expect to hear from you on your return," replied the beggar, and vanished by the magical process of stepping into a bewitched compartment which, at the touch of a brass-buttoned wizard's hand upon a lever, dropped harmlessly down a frightful chasm and disgorged him unharmed upon the street.

On the punctual fifteen minutes before train time E. Van Tenner picked up his small, light traveling bag and walked the two blocks to the station. There he was met by an obsequious porter to whom he mechanically surrendered the insignificant burden. Instinctively he felt in his change pocket to see whether he had any silver. None. Nor in his trousers pocket. Why, what had he—

Oh, of course. The beggar's purse, in his breast pocket. He reached in for it and the purse bit him. At least that was his first startled thought, so queer and unpleasant a thrill ran up his finger. Then it was the porter's turn to be startled, for E. Van Tenner, retrieving his luggage, addressed to him a positive monosyllable: "None."

"Wha'—wha' that you say, suh?"

"Didn't you just ask me 'What's the good?"'

"Me? Lawd! No, suh!"

"Well, somebody did," asserted E. Van Tenner, vague but emphatic. "I'll carry my own bag, thank you."

"Ghos'es! He's hearin' ghos'es," surmised the alarmed African, staring after his escaped patron as that haunted gentleman made his way to the Pullman window.

Here he again felt for the wallet. Though there was no shock this time it seemed to come forth reluctantly, and the magic phrase as it met his eyes took on a quality of insistence.

"Well, what is the good?" repeated E. Van Tenner.

"Beg your pardon?" said the astonished agent from his window.

"I—that is to say—have you a chair for New York on this train?"

"Just one left, sir."

"Keep it!" the horrified Van Tenner heard himself say. Or was it himself that had said it? At any rate he was ten paces from the window on his way to a day coach before he recovered. Not until then did it occur to him that on his last trip the parlor car had been so hot and