“Nothing.  Can you suggest anything?  Something that will tax all my energy of mind and body.  That is what I want.  I hope you do not misunderstand me, sir.  I do not wish to seem ungrateful for what you have done.”

“I do understand you, Tom, and were I in your position, and of your age, I might feel the same.  But what about your painting?  Have you lost all interest in that?  When you were in France you often wrote what impressions you were getting, and how much you intended to do when you came home.”

“I have done very little at that, and the sketches I made are still uncompleted.  Some day I may do something, but not now.”

“You certainly have lost all interest, Tom, in the things that once gave you so much pleasure.”

“It is only too true, although I have honestly tried to return to the old ways.  But I must have a fling at something else to get this restless feeling out of my system.  What do you suggest!  Perhaps it is only a thrashing I need.  That does children good sometimes.”

The editor smiled as he pulled out a drawer in his desk, and brought forth a fair-sized scrapbook.  He slowly turned the pages and stopped at length where a large newspaper clipping had been carefully pasted.

“I do not think you need a thrashing, Tom,” he began.  “But I believe I can suggest something better than that.  Here is an entry I made in this book over fifteen years ago, and the story it contains appeals strongly to me now.  I read it at least once a year, and it has been the cause of many a day-dream to me, and night-dream as well, for that matter.  Did you ever hear of the mysterious disappearance of Henry Redmond, the wealthy merchant of this city?  But I suppose not, as you were young at the time.”

“No, I never heard of him,” Reynolds acknowledged.  “Was he killed?”

“Oh, no.  He merely disappeared, and left no trace at all.  That was, as I have just said, over fifteen years ago, and no word has been received from him since.”

“What was the trouble?  Financial difficulties?”

“Not at all.  He simply disappeared.  It was due to his wife’s death, so I believe.  They were greatly attached to each other, and when she suddenly died Redmond was a broken-hearted man.  I knew him well and it was pathetic to watch him.  He took no interest in his business, and sold out as soon as possible.  Then he vanished, and that was the last we heard of him.  He was an odd man in many ways, and although one of the shrewdest men in business I ever knew, he was fond of the simple life.  He was a great reader, and at one time possessed a very fine library.  This article which I wish you to read tells the story of his life, how he built up his business, and of his sudden disappearance.”

“How do you know he wasn’t killed?” Reynolds asked.

“Because of this,” and the editor laid his forefinger upon a small separate clipping at the bottom of the larger one.  A short time after Redmond disappeared, and when the excitement of all was intense, this was received and published.  Although it bore no name, yet we well know that it was from Redmond, for it was just like something he would do.  This is what he wrote: