“And Uncle Maxwell didn’t think enough of it to take it to town with him—­just locked it up and left it.”  This was Max’s theory.  “Uncle Maxwell knew nothing about books and cared less; he was all for business.”

“Luckily for you.  This must be worth a good deal, if you care to sell it,” said Jarvis, who, close by one of the odd windows, was studying the fine text of a set of English dramatists.

Sally walked over and gently took the books out of his hand.  “Jarvis Burnside,” said she, decidedly, “the value of this collection is nothing beside the value of your eyes.  Put on your goggles, and don’t look at another line of type!”

CHAPTER III

THE APARTMENT OVERFLOWS

The telephone bell in the Lanes’ apartment rang sharply.  It had rung once before, but Sally, half-asleep on the couch in the middle of a warm April morning, had not roused enough to notice.  She moved reluctantly toward it.  Max’s voice speaking urgently brought her back to her senses with a jump.

“Sally, where on earth are you?  I’ve just had a wire from the Chases that they’re coming through, and will stop off to see us.  We’ll have to put them up somehow.  Of course they don’t know how we’re fixed, but they’ll find out.”

“Oh, Max!” Sally’s tones were dismayed.  “Why, we can’t!”

“We’ll have to.  What would you have me do—­wire them not to stop?  Besides, I couldn’t get them.  They’ve left the place they wired from—­reach here to-night at nine.  You’ll have to have some kind of supper for them.”

“But, Max—­where—­”

“Oh, figure it out somehow—­you can, you know.  I haven’t a minute more to talk—­inspector’s here—­everybody busy—­” and the click of the receiver in Sally’s ear ended the interview.

The Chases!  They were young married people, who had been neighbours and schoolmates of the Lanes.  Dorothy Eustis, as an older girl, had been much admired by Sally and Josephine until she married Neil Chase; that event had made a great difference in their warmth of feeling.  Sally did not like Neil, never had liked him, and never would like him.  A certain pomposity of manner, which had been a characteristic of his, ever since the days when he wore dresses and lorded it over the other infants in the park, had made him unpopular.  He had, however, become a successful young attorney in his father’s law firm, and had within the last year gone to a larger city several hundred miles away to start practice for himself.

The thought of entertaining Neil and Dorothy Chase in the little apartment was almost too much for Sally Lane.  The Chases had gone away just before the Lanes had sold the old house, and knew nothing of the new quarters—­evidently realized nothing of their small dimensions.  It had been characteristic of them to telegraph that they were coming, without waiting for a reply.  That was precisely like Neil.