was noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his subordinates’ work for them.

As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing was discursive and lacked central motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.

“Owen”—her voice was excited—“have you seen the paper to-day? Then listen. I’ll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: ‘The Piccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version of Miss Edith Butler’s popular novel, White Roses, prepared by the authoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including—’ And then a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?”

“What am I going to do?”

“Don’t you see what’s happened? That awful woman has stolen your play. She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are you laughing at?”

“I wasn’t laughing.”

“Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I’ll ring off if you do it again. You don’t believe me. Well, you wait and see if I’m not—”

“Edith Butler’s incapable of such a thing.”

There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.

“I thought you said you didn’t know her,” said Audrey, jealously.

“I don’t—I don’t,” said Owen, hastily. “But I’ve read her books. They’re simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She’s a sort of literary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn’t steal a play if she tried.”

“You can’t judge authors from their books. You must go and see the play when it comes on. Then you’ll see I’m right. I’m absolutely certain that woman is trying to swindle you. Don’t laugh in that horrid way. Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I’m going to.”

At the beginning of the next month Owen’s annual holiday arrived. The authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employés ten days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve months’ work.

Owen had spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields and miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant background for sentimental musings.

It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr. Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten- year-old son George, and Mr. Dorman’s mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the botts by means of spells.

Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and sing “Asthore,” the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr. Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated.