could see in the little room two typewriting machines, one new and shiny, the other, under a cover, old and battered.
"Say! what do you want?" A challenging voice brought Trant around swiftly to face a scowling boy clattering down stairs.
"He wants to look at the typewriter, Robert," the girl explained.
Trant looked the boy over quietly. He was a clean-looking chap, quietly dressed and resembling his father, but was of more powerful physique. His face was marred by sullen brooding, and in his eyes there was a settled flame of defiance. The psychologist turned away, as though determined to finish first his inspection of the typewriter, and entered the room. The boy and the girl followed.
"Here, you!" said Robert Gordon, harshly, as Trant laid his hand on the cover of the old machine, "that's not the typewriter you want to look at. This is the one." And he pointed to the newer of the two.
"It's the old one I want to see," answered Trant.
The boy paled suddenly, leaped forward and seized Trant by the wrist. "Say! Who are you, anyway? What do you want to see that machine for?" he demanded, hotly. "You shall not see it, if I can help it!"
"What!" Trant faced him in obvious astonishment. "You! You in that! That alters matters!"
William Gordon had appeared suddenly in the doorway, his face as white as his son's. Robert's hand
