Rich toilets alighted and mounted the red-brown steps-hats that rose, tier on tier, riotous parterres of flowers and feathers and fruit, close little bonnets tha

w about epigraphy-all about it. The laughing faces and daintily shod feet were set firmly in the way of culture. They swept through the wide doors, up the long carved staircase-from the Caracci Palace in Florence-into the wide library, with its arched ceiling and high-shelved books and glimpses of bus

ture on Cretan inscriptions at the home of Mrs. Philip Harris on the Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois. He looked again at the shoreless West and tried to grasp it. It may have been his subconscious self that reminded him-it may have been the telepathic waves that travelled toward him out of the half-gloom of the library. They were fifty strong, and they travelled with great intensity-"Had any one seen him-?" "Where was he?" "What was wrong?" "Late!" "Very late!" "Such a punctual man!" The waves fluttered and spread and grew. The pr