in upon her husband.  One man alone stood by Surface in his downfall, his classmate and friend of his bosom from the cradle, John Randolph Weyland, a good man and a true.  Weyland’s affection never faltered.  When Surface withdrew from the State with a heart full of savage rancor, Weyland went every year or two to visit him, first in Chicago and later in New York, where the exile was not slow in winning name and fortune as a daring speculator.  And when Weyland died, leaving a widow and infant daughter, he gave a final proof of his trust by making Surface sole trustee of his estate, which was a large one for that time and place.  Few have forgotten how the political traitor rewarded this misplaced confidence.  The crash came within a few months.  Surface was arrested in the company of a woman whom he referred to as his wife.  The trust fund, saving a fraction, was gone, swallowed up to stay some ricketty deal.  Surface was convicted of embezzlement and sentenced to ten years at hard labor, and every Democrat in the State cried, “I told you so.”  What had become of him after his release from prison, nobody knew; some of the boarders said that he was living in the west, or in Australia; others, that he was not living anywhere, unless on the shores of perpetual torment.  All agreed that the alleged second Mrs. Surface had long since died—­all, that is, but Klinker, who said that she had only pretended to die in order to make a fade-away with the gate receipts.  For many persons believed, it seemed, that Surface, by clever juggling of his books, had managed to “hold out” a large sum of money in the enforced settlement of his affairs.  At any rate, very little of it ever came back to the family of the man who had put trust in him, and that was why the daughter, whose name was Charlotte Lee Weyland, now worked for her daily bread.

That Major Brooke’s hearers found this story of evergreen interest was natural enough.  For besides the brilliant blackness of the narrative, there was the close personal connection that all Paynterites had with some of its chief personages.  Did not the sister-in-law of John Randolph Weyland sit and preside over them daily, pouring their coffee morning and night with her own hands?  And did not the very girl whose fortune had been stolen, the bereft herself, come now and then to sit among them, occupying that identical chair which Mr. Bylash could touch by merely putting out his hand?  Henry G. Surface’s story?  Why, Mrs. Paynter’s wrote it!

These personal bearings were of course lost upon Mr. Queed, the name Weyland being utterly without significance to him.  He left the table the moment he had absorbed all the supper he wanted.  In the hall he ran upon Professor Nicolovius, the impressive-looking master of Greek at Milner’s Collegiate School, who, already hatted and overcoated, was drawing on his gloves under the depressed fancy chandelier.  The old professor glanced up at the sound of footsteps and favored Queed with a bland smile.