“I may not be at the office to-morrow until evening, but will you wait for me?”

“Yes.”

“And when I come, I’ll be myself.”

“Be yourself?  Who are you now?”

“Another man.”

“Oh, then I shall be glad to see you.”

“I don’t know as to that.  You may have strong objections to my real self.”

“You are so mysterious.”

“To-day, yes; to-morrow, no.”

He was leaning back, blowing rings of smoke, and was looking up at them.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say it,” she said, “but during the last three months you have appeared stranger than ever.”

“Yes,” he drawlingly replied, “for during the last three months it was natural that I should be stranger than ever.”

“I do wish I knew what you mean.”

“And when you have been told you may wish you had never known.”

“Is it so bad as that?”

“Worse.”

“Worse than what?”

“Than anything you imagine.”

“Oh, you are simply trying to tease me, Mr. Witherspoon.”

“Do you think so?  Then we’ll say no more about it.”

“Oh, but that’s worse than ever.  Well, I don’t care; I can wait.”

They talked on subjects in which neither of them was interested, but sympathy was in their voices.  Gradually—­yes, now it seemed for months—­they had been floating toward that fern-covered island in the river of life where a thoughtless word comes back with an echo of love; where the tongue may be silly, but where the eye holds a redeemed soul, returned from God to gaze upon the only remembered rapture of this earth.

She went with him to the head of the stairway.  “Don’t leave the office before I come,” he called, looking back at her.

“You know I won’t,” she answered.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

TOLD HIM A STORY.

At the appointed time, the next day, George Witherspoon was waiting in his library.  DeGolyer came in a cab, and when he got out, he told the driver to wait.

“Where is your friend?” Witherspoon asked as DeGolyer entered the room.

“He’ll be here within a few minutes.”

“Confound him, I’m getting sick of his peculiarities.”

The merchant sat down; DeGolyer stood on the hearth-rug.  The time was come, and he had been strong, but now a shiver crept over him.

“My friend told me a singular story to-day.”

“I don’t doubt it; and if his stories are as singular as he is, they must he marvelous.”

“This story is marvelous, and I think it would interest you.  I will give it to you briefly.  There were two young men in a foreign country”—­

“I wish he was in a foreign country.  I can’t wait here all day.”

“He’ll be here soon.  These two friends were on their way to the sea coast, and here’s where it will strike you.  One of them had been stolen when he was a child, and was now going back to his parents.  But before they reached the coast, the rich man’s son—­as we’ll call the one who had been stolen—­was stricken with a fever.  No ship was in port, and his friend took him to a hotel and got a doctor for him.”