There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. “I see,” she said, submissively, “I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek. And——”

“And,” interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, “whatever you find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle Ebeneezer’s fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will remember?”

“I will remember. You need not fear to trust me.”

“Then let us shake hands upon our compact.” For a moment, Elaine’s warm, rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins. “Last night,” he sighed, “I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?”

“Nothing,” returned Elaine; “I sleep very soundly.”

“The privilege of unpoetic souls,” commented Mr. Perkins. “But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a—poem.”

“Read it,” cried Elaine, rapturously. “Oh, if I might hear it!”

Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in careless, artistic fashion.

“As you might expect, if you knew about such things,” he began, clearing his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, “it is upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measure which I have made my own. I will read it now.

“SONNET ON SLEEP
“O Sleep, that fillst the human breast with peace, When night’s dim curtains swing from out the West, In what way, in what manner, could we rest Were thy beneficent offices to cease? O Sleep, thou art indeed the snowy fleece Upon Day’s lamb. A welcome guest That comest alike to palace and to nest And givest the cares of life a glad release. O Sleep, I beg thee, rest upon my eyes, For I am weary, worn, and sad,—indeed, Of thy great mercies have I piteous need So come and lead me off to Paradise.”