looking in on him, though." Then, seeing or fancying he saw, the dawning of suspicion in "Lovey's" eyes, Clif abandoned that line quickly. "Well, thank you, sir."
"Not at all, Bingham." When the visitor had gone Mr. McKnight protruded his lower lip, closed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully at the ink-well. Finally he shook his head. "If it were any one but Bingham, now," he murmured, "I'd be inclined to suspect that something had been put over on me!"
Upstairs again, in Number 34, Clif related to Billy Desmond, in a somewhat small voice, the result of his visit. "Gee, if he does come up it's all off! What'll I do, Billy? I didn't lie to him, but he will think I did, and I'd hate that!"
"Huh," said Billy, pinching his nose as an aid to concentration of thought, "there's just one chance, Clif, and we'll have to risk it." From his closet he gathered an armful of clothing, turned down Tom's immaculate bed, heaped the clothing on the sheet and pulled blankets and coverlet back into place. From the end of the room the illusion was only fairly successful, but when Billy had turned the light out, and opened the corridor door, admitting the wan radiance from without, none but the most suspicious would have doubted that Tom lay there fast asleep, his head covered by the sheet. Billy chuckled approvingly. Then he threw a pair of his own trousers and a towel, and an old coat over the back of the chair by Tom's bed and tucked a pair of shoes underneath it. After that, still chuck-
