Orde laughed.

"Sure? Why, it gives me two weeks' leeway over the worst possible
luck I could have. You're too almighty suspicious, Joe."

Newmark shook his head.

"You let me figure this out," said he.

But bedtime found him without a solution. He retired to his room
under fire of Orde's good-natured raillery. Orde himself shut his
door, the smile still on his lips. As he began removing his coat,
however, the smile died. The week had been a busy one. Hardly had
he exchanged a dozen words with his parents, for he had even been
forced to eat his dinner and supper away from home. This Sunday he
had promised himself to make his deferred but much-desired call on
Jane Hubbard--and her guest. He turned out the gas with a shrug of
resignation. For the first time his brain cleared of its turmoil of
calculations, of guesses, of estimates, and of men. He saw clearly
the limited illumination cast downward by the lamp beneath its wide
shade, the graceful, white figure against the shadow of the easy
chair, the oval face cut in half by the lamplight to show plainly
the red lips with the quaint upward quirks at the corners, and dimly
the inscrutable eyes and the hair with the soft shadows. With a
sigh he fell asleep.

Some time in the night he was awakened by a persistent tapping on
the door. In the woodsman's manner, he was instantly broad awake.
He lit the gas and opened the door to admit Newmark, partially