On the last Saturday in April, the New York "Times" published an account

of the strike complications which were delaying Alexander's New Jersey

bridge, and stated that the engineer himself was in town and at his

office on West Tenth Street.

On Sunday, the day after this notice appeared, Alexander worked all day

at his Tenth Street rooms. His business often called him to New York,

and he had kept an apartment there for years, subletting it when he went

abroad for any length of time. Besides his sleeping-room and bath, there

was a large room, formerly a painter's studio, which he used as a

study and office. It was furnished with the cast-off possessions of his

bachelor days and with odd things which he sheltered for friends of

his who followed itinerant and more or less artistic callings. Over the

fireplace there was a large old-fashioned gilt mirror. Alexander's big

work-table stood in front of one of the three windows, and above the

couch hung the one picture in the room, a big canvas of charming color

and spirit, a study of the Luxembourg Gardens in early spring, painted

in his youth by a man who had since become a portrait-painter of

international renown. He had done it for Alexander when they were

students together in Paris.

Sunday was a cold, raw day and a fine rain fell continuously. When

Alexander came back from dinner he put more wood on his fire, made

himself comfortable, and settled down at his desk, where he began

checking over estimate sheets. It was after nine o'clock and he was

lighting a second pipe, when he thought he heard a sound at his door.

He started and listened, holding the burning match in his hand; again

he heard the same sound, like a firm, light tap. He rose and crossed the

room quickly. When he threw open the door he recognized the figure that

shrank back into the bare, dimly lit hallway. He stood for a moment in

awkward constraint, his pipe in his hand.

"Come in," he said to Hilda at last, and closed the door behind her. He

pointed to a chair by the fire and went back to his worktable. "Won't

you sit down?"

He was standing behind the table, turning over a pile of blueprints

nervously. The yellow light from the student's lamp fell on his hands

and the purple sleeves of his velvet smoking-jacket, but his flushed

face and big, hard head were in the shadow. There was something about

him that made Hilda wish herself at her hotel again, in the street

below, anywhere but where she was.




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