“Craig,” I yawned, as I began to throw off my clothes, “I’m ready to sleep a week.”

There was no answer.

I looked up at him almost resentfully.  He had picked up the mail that lay under our letter slot and was going through it as eagerly as if the clock registered P.M. instead of A.M.

“Let me see,” I mumbled sleepily, checking over my notes, “how many days have we been at it?”

I turned the pages slowly, after the manner in which my mind was working.

“It was the twenty-sixth when you got that letter from Ossining,” I calculated, “and to-day makes the thirtieth.  My heavens—­is there still another day of it?  Is there no rest for the wicked?”

Kennedy looked up and laughed.

He was pointing at the calendar on the desk before him.

“There are only thirty days in the month,” he remarked slowly.

“Thank the Lord,” I exclaimed.  “I’m all in!”

He tipped his desk-chair back and bit the amber of his meerchaum contemplatively.

“But to-day is the first,” he drawled, turning the leaf on the calendar with just a flicker of a smile.

THE END