long day in bed, alone with my thoughts, waiting for Boyde's return, was wearisome to endlessness, by no means free from new, unpleasant reflections, yet when at last the door opened softly, and he came back, his arms full of the little extras mentioned, there was disappointment in me somewhere. It was not quite as I expected. Accompanying the disappointment were these new, faint twinges of uneasiness as well. I kept the gas burning all night. I watched Boyde's face, as he slept calmly beside me in that narrow bed, his expression of innocence and kindliness increased my feelings of gratitude, even of tenderness, towards him. There were deep lines, however, that sleep did not smooth out. "Poor devil, he's been through the mill!" This habit of watching him grew.
There was delay and trouble about the Rockaway Hunt post; studio sittings were scarce; the Baptist church organist was never unable to officiate; Morton Selton never missed a performance; and Boyde, as a result, though he still contributed what he could, earned next to nothing. If I was puzzled by his late hours, his explanations invariably cleared away my wonder. He always had a plausible excuse, one, too, that woke my sympathy. It was just at this time, moreover, that Kay wrote. The Canadian tour was such a failure that Gilmour was taking his troupe to the States, where they anticipated better houses. No salaries had been paid. They were now off to Pittsburg. Kay hoped to send some money before long.
I spent the weary hours reading.... On the third day, my symptoms worse, the door opened suddenly without a knock, and I saw an old man with a white moustache and spectacles peering round the edge at me. I laid down my "Gita" and stared back at him.
"Are you Mr. Blackwood?" he asked, with a marked German accent.
"Yes." I had not the faintest idea who he was.
He closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed
the room, laid his small black bag on the sofa, then came
