from the dream-world in which he had been roaming.
"That," chuckled Randall Crane, "must have been a dream or two ago. If the stuff that dreams are made of is finer than mist, then without a doubt, dream-food doesn't contain many calories. So I suggest that you eat again. Dreams are ample food for the soul, but the stomach is a far more vulgar fellow."
When they had finished breakfast,
Hugh said, "Now with your
permission I should like to buy another
dream."
"Another dream?" asked Randall Crane with surprized inflection.
"I mean the same dream," Hugh hastened to explain. And then, realizing that he had not paid for it, he took out his wallet.
But Randall Crane waved him aside. "Put your money away," he said. "You can't pay for dreams with material things. Some day I will tell you the price of a dream,"
"When you do," declared Hugh, "I shall be delighted to pay whatever you ask."
"Evidently you liked your dream," drawled Crane.
"Liked it!" cried Hugh. "Why, just the remembrance of it is worth living for. Did I not prove my utter satisfaction by wishing to have it over again at once?"
Randall Crane shook his head. "I do not deal in day-dreams," he said slowly. "One can't have a beautiful dream until one's day's work is done. Perhaps I am assuming when I say you can not spare the golden hours of sunlight for day-dreaming. Perhaps you belong to the rich, idle, useless class, although I seriously doubt it, the men who just knock about town doing nothing, thinking nothing, producing nothing."
"Whether I belong to that class depends on one's point of view," declared Hugh. "Usually the things I produce are stolen bonds, jewels or money. I am a detective. I am seldom idle, sometimes useless, but never rich. In the last few years I have solved some intricate problems, but never has one proven such an enigma as this. I can hardly credit the happenings of the last dozen hours."
"Do they seem like a dream?" chuckled Randall Crane.
"I'd say a miracle," replied Hugh fervently.
The horn's of that day to Hugh seemed leaden. The minutes dragged past as though they were feeble with age. He went to his office, but all he could think of was the dream girl. She was a delicious mystery. The day seemed endless. He made no effort to work. He recalled Mason's story of The Clock, wherein is related how a man lived fourteen minutes in a single second. Each second now seemed just that long to him. He was in love with a girl whom he had met in a dream. Now only sleep mattered. His waking hours were useless.
2
Promptly at 6 o'clock Hugh was in the rooms of the Dream Peddler. "Bring on your dreams," he cried. He made no effort to hide his jubilant spirits.
"But we must eat first," said Randall Crane prosaically.
"I've had my supper," replied Hugh irritably. "Can't you eat while I sleep?"
"Since I am but a peddler," drawled Randall Crane, "it would not be polite of me to insist." As he spoke he lighted a pipe.
In silence Hugh stretched himself out upon the couch and looked steadily into his eyes.
"You are on a hilltop," said Randall Crane softly. "But you are not alone. She is with you. Together you can go on with the dream."
As the Dream Peddler's voice faded off into nothing, Hugh realized
