2

The old barn was dark.

'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly aren't here. Take a look though.'

With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, peering about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough to know the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's boarding-house.

A voice—Humphrey's—said:—

'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?'

There they were—over in the farther window-seat—sitting very still, huddled together—a mere faint shape against the dim outside light. He felt his way around the centre table, toward them.

'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing in his temples. And he was curiously breathless.

He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of this; had just rushed over here, headlong.

'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality in her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent.

'Well'—Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that now and then crept into it—'anything special, Hen? Here we are!'

Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms.

Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand.

Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from the world and give toys to.

Henry, to his own amazement—and chagrin—covered his face and sobbed.

'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?'

The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:—

'Has my husband come home?'

Henry nodded.

'Where's Corinne?'

'She—she's waiting on the corner, in case you....

Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug.

'Did he—did he see either of you?'

Henry shook his head.

Mildred pressed a finger to her lips.

'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said.

Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre gaze settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she raised her head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the question:—

'Stay here?'

Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other hand. But she shook her head.

A little later he said.

'Come then, dear. We'll go down there.'

From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred, very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes rested on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands.

'It's—it's the limit!' he whispered. 'You see—my hat....'

That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. His mouth even moved a little. But no sound came.

Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis he ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn't stand here indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley.

Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were silent, Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure recovered from his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make talk. He spoke of the stillness of the night. He said, 'It's the only time I like the town—after midnight. You don't have to see the people then.'

Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still.

Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a practical frame of mind.

'There he is,' she whispered. 'Been sitting right there all the time. This is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I've figured it all out. No good in letting ourselves get excited. It's all right. You and I will walk up with Henry. Just take it for granted that you've been down to the lake with us. We needn't even explain.'

Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey's arm, seemed to be looking at her.

Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand groped up toward Humphrey's shoulder.

'Wait!' she said breathlessly. 'I can't go in there now. Not right now. Wait a little. I can't!'

Humphrey led her away into the shadows.

Corinne looked at Henry. 'Hm!' she murmured—'serious!'

The university clock struck one.

Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat. His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his mind was thinking clearly, coldly:—

'This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I'm seeing it! I'm in it, part of it!'