"Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,

Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme,

Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--Byron.

Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of

which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being

occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time.

Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to

make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose

her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew

backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;

he smoked, but no light came from within or without.

He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one

unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to

seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our

daily lives.

It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the

appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red

curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted

a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of

highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.

Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red

paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings

showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli,

Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.

Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes,

flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space

between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the

young collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history of

smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to

the present day.

In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyes

fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned.

What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walked

over to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the first

picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor.

The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when

Sanderson's attention was arrested by a knock.

"Come in," he called, and a young man of about his own age entered.

Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent

about the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to be

trustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance.




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