his grasp upon my shoulder and looked at me with the same cynical "regard that I had observed on first meeting him. The dead have not that look—it partly restored me, and turning my head backward, I saw the smooth white expanse of sidewalk, unbroken from street to street.
"What is all this nonsense, you devil?" I demanded, fiercely enough, though weak and trembling in every limb.
"It is what some are pleased to call jugglery," he answered, with a light, hard laugh. He turned down Dupont street and I saw him no more until we met in the Auburn ravine.
III
On the day after my second meeting with Dr. Dorrimore I did not see him: the clerk in the Putnam House explained that a slight illness confined him to his rooms. That afternoon at the railway station I was surprised and made happy by the unexpected arrival of Miss Margaret Corray and her mother, from Oakland.
This is not a love story. I am no story-teller, and love as it is cannot be portrayed in a literature dominated and enthralled by the debasing tyranny which "sentences letters"
