of the far West, had been dissatisfied with all places because a failure in all, and had come to spend the remainder of his days with his brother in Chicago. Here, he declared, a man could not find disappointment, for no man of sense expected anything but permission to breathe and to keep out of the way. Friends knew that he was the Judge's standing joke, a family laughing stock, a humorous burden, a necessary idleness. Of course, it was natural for him to feel that he owned the place.

Howard and George Bodney were bred to the law, and recently had been admitted to the bar. The "starvation period" of the average young lawyer did not arise out of dull prospect to confront them; they were to make their way, it was true, but they could study and wait. Howard was ambitious, and his mind was grasping. It was said that he "gulped" a book. He did not stop at the stern texts which were to serve as a part of his necessary equipment, but gave himself excursions among those graces of half-idle minds which light a torch for souls that may be greater. He peeped into the odd corners of thought. Once he startled his father by declaring that genius was the unconscious wisdom of ignorance.

"It is the reflection of hard work," said the old man. The boy was the corner-stone of his hope; he wanted to feel that his work was to go on, generation after generation, a pardonable vanity, but a vanity nevertheless. He wanted the boy to be practical, for a speculative youth is not a good perpetuator of a father's career. And on one occasion the boy was taken gently to task for reading a decadent book.

"I like to brush up against different minds," said he.

"But nothing is gained by brushing against a diseased mind."

"We might learn something from a mad dog."

"But all of value that we may learn from him," said the old man, "is to keep out of his way. I must request you not to read such books."

Bodney had not distinguished himself. He appeared to be restless and dissatisfied with himself and with his prospects. He thought that the law afforded but a slow and tedious way to make money, and deplored the shortsightedness of his father and his benefactor for not having invested in the mud-hole. Nervousness may inspire force of character, but it more often induces weakness. In many respects Bodney was weak. But the Judge, who should have been a shrewd observer of men as well as of principles, did not see it. In the "youth of old age," a man who, in his younger days, may have been keenly of the world, sometimes turns upon life the goggle eye of optimism.

After his retirement from the bench and the more active affairs of the law, the Judge fitted up an office at his home, with desks, long table covered with green baize, books and safe.

One evening Bodney sat alone in the home office, deeply brooding. The household was at dinner, and he heard the hearty laughter of the Judge. He was joking with a guest, a preacher, a good fellow. The young man's brow was dark. Of late he had formed an association with a man named Goyle, clearly an adventurer, but a man to inflame the fancy of a morbid nature. Bodney and Goyle had been much together, at the house and at the office down town, but no one made any objection. Personal freedom was a hobby with the Judge.

There were two doors leading into the office, one opening into a hall, the other into a passageway communicating directly with the street. Through the door opening into the passage Goyle entered. He carried a valise in his hand. Bodney looked up.

"Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in."

"Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in."

"That's what I'm doing," Goyle replied, putting down the valise near the door and advancing toward the desk at which Bodney was seated.

"Sit down," said Bodney.

"That's what I'm going to do," Goyle replied.

He sat down, and for a time both were silent. "Where's everybody?" Goyle asked.

The bass laughter of the Judge and the contralto of a woman's mirth were heard.

"At dinner," said Bodney, nodding toward the dining room.

"Don't you eat?"

"Sometimes," Bodney answered, and then after a short silence he asked: "Did you get my note?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're scared," said Goyle.

Bodney gave him a quick look. "Who wouldn't be?"

"I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would. It's this way, and there's no other way to it: The old man has missed money from the safe. He hasn't said so, but I can tell by the way he acts."

Goyle smiled. "Well, but no one but himself knows the combination of the safe. He doesn't know that you found a piece of paper with the figures on it, does he?"

"Of course not, but it won't be long before he begins to suspect someone."

"Which, necessarily, fastens it on you. Is that it?"

"Doesn't it look like it?"

"Oh, it might," said Goyle. "That is, if you let it?"

Bodney looked at him with reproach. "If I let it. How the deuce can I help it? You don't suppose he'd suspect his son Howard, do you? No man could trust a son more than he does."

Goyle shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't trust him with the combination of the safe, did he?"

"No, for it's his idea of business not to trust anyone absolutely. He laughs and jokes all right enough, and says that this is a fine old world, but he hasn't quite forgotten that he practiced law among rascals."

"Yes," said Goyle, leaning back and stretching himself. "This soft air makes me lazy. It's not natural, you know, to be comfortable in Chicago. What were we talking about?"

Bodney turned upon him almost fiercely, but the visitor looked at him with the self-command of impudent laziness. He was not given to starts. He was born a rascal, and had cultivated his legacy. Coolness may be a virtue; it is also the strongest weapon of the scoundrel, and Goyle was always cool. He motioned with his hand, bowed, smiled, and Bodney's anger was gone.

"Don't get hot, old man," said he. "Everything is all right. If it isn't, we'll make it so. Oh, yes, we were talking about the old gentleman's suspicions. And we've got to take care of them. If I understand it, Howard is to marry your sister. You are all of a family. Your father and the Judge were law partners years ago, and you and your sister were adopted by—"

Bodney waved his hand impatiently. "We know all about that. Yes, and he has been a father to me and I have been—"

"A villain, necessarily," Goyle broke in. "Villainy is born in us, and for a