Craig hastily unlocked the door and entered.  Inside, I could see him pacing up and down our modest quarters.

“Do you see anything, Walter?” he called.

I looked at the seismograph.  The pen had started to trace its line, no longer even and straight, but zigzag, at different heights across the paper.

He came to the door.  “What do you think of it?” he inquired.

“Splendid idea,” I answered enthusiastically.

Our apartment was, as I have said, modest, consisting of a large living room, two bedrooms, and bath—­an attractive but not ornate place, which we found very cosy and comfortable.  On one side of the room was a big fire place, before which stood a fire screen.  We had collected easy chairs and capacious tables and desks.  Books were scattered about, literally overflowing from the crowded shelves.  On the walls were our favorite pictures, while for ornament, I suppose I might mention my typewriter and now and then some of Craig’s wonderful scientific apparatus as satisfying our limited desire for the purely aesthetic.

We entered and fell to work at the aforementioned typewriter, on a special Sunday story that I had been forced to neglect.  I was not so busy, however, that I did not notice out of the corner of my eye that Kennedy had taken from its cover Elaine Dodge’s picture and was gazing at it ravenously.

I put my hand surreptitiously over my mouth and coughed.  Kennedy wheeled on me and I hastily banged a sentence out on the machine, making at least half a dozen mistakes.

I had finished as much of the article as I could do then and was smoking and reading it over.  Kennedy was still gazing at the picture Miss Dodge had given him, then moving from place to place about the room, evidently wondering where it would look best.  I doubt whether he had done another blessed thing since we returned.

He tried it on the mantel.  That wouldn’t do.  At last he held it up beside a picture of Galton, I think, of finger print and eugenics fame, who hung on the wall directly opposite the fireplace.  Hastily he compared the two.  Elaine’s picture was of precisely the same size.

Next he tore out the picture of the scientist and threw it carelessly into the fireplace.  Then he placed Elaine’s picture in its place and hung it up again, standing off to admire it.

I watched him gleefully.  Was this Craig?  Purposely I moved my elbow suddenly and pushed a book with a bang on the floor.  Kennedy actually jumped.  I picked up the book with a muttered apology.  No, this was not the same old Craig.

Perhaps half an hour later, I was still reading.  Kennedy was now pacing up and down the room, apparently unable to concentrate his mind on any but one subject.

He stopped a moment before the photograph, looked at it fixedly.  Then he started his methodical walk again, hesitated, and went over to the telephone, calling a number which I recognized.