I was sunk in dejected reverie when some one came on the roof.  When he was opposite the opening in the tent, I saw Mr. Harbison, and at that moment he saw me.  He paused uncertainly, then he made an evident effort and came over to me.

“You are—­better today?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“I am glad you find the tent useful.  Does it keep off the wind?”

“It is quite a shelter”—­frigidly.

He still stood, struggling for something to say.  Evidently nothing came to his mind, for he lifted the cap he was wearing, and turning away, began to work with the wiring of the roof.  He was clever with tools; one could see that.  If he was a professional gentleman-burglar, no doubt he needed to be.  After a bit, finding it necessary to climb to the parapet, he took off his coat, without even a glance in my direction, and fell to work vigorously.

One does not need to like a man to admire him physically, any more than one needs to like a race horse or any other splendid animal.  No one could deny that the man on the parapet was a splendid animal; he looked quite big enough and strong enough to have tossed his slender bridge across the gulf to the next roof, without any difficulty, and coordinate enough to have crossed on it with a flourish to safety.

Just then there was a rending, tearing sound from the corner and a muttered ejaculation.  I looked up in time to see Mr. Harbison throw up his arms, make a futile attempt to regain his balance, and disappear over the edge of the roof.  One instant he was standing there, splendid, superb; the next, the corner of the parapet was empty, all that stood there was a broken, splintered post and a tangle of wires.

I could not have moved at first; at least, it seemed hours before the full significance of the thing penetrated my dazed brain.  When I got up I seemed to walk, to crawl, with leaden weights holding back my feet.

When I got to the corner I had to catch the post for support.  I knew somebody was saying, “Oh, how terrible!” over and over.  It was only afterward that I knew it had been myself.  And then some other voice was saying, “Don’t be alarmed.  Please don’t be frightened.  I’m all right.”

I dared to look over the parapet, finally, and instead of a crushed and unspeakable body, there was Mr. Harbison, sitting about eight feet below me, with his feet swinging into space and a long red scratch from the corner of his eye across his cheek.  There was a sort of mansard there, with windows, and just enough coping to keep him from rolling off.

“I thought you had fallen—­all the way,” I gasped, trying to keep my lips from trembling.  “I—­oh, don’t dangle your feet like that!”

He did not seem at all glad of his escape.  He sat there gloomily, peering into the gulf beneath.

“If it wasn’t so—­er—­messy and generally unpleasant,” he replied without looking up, “I would slide off and go the rest of the way.”