“John Glenarm, the grandson of John Marshall Glenarm, the eccentric millionaire who died suddenly in Vermont last summer, arrived on the Maxinkuckee from Naples yesterday. Under the terms of his grandfather’s will, Glenarm is required to reside for a year at a curious house established by John Marshall Glenarm near Lake Annandale, Indiana.

This provision was made, according to friends of the family, to test young Glenarm’s staying qualities, as he has, since his graduation from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology five years ago, distributed a considerable fortune left him by his father in contemplating the wonders of the old world. It is reported—”

“That will do! Signs and wonders I have certainly beheld, and if I spent the money I submit that I got my money back.”

I paid my bill and took a hansom for the ferry,—Larry with, me, chaffing away drolly with his old zest. He crossed with me, and as the boat drew out into the river a silence fell upon us,—the silence that is possible only between old friends. As I looked back at the lights of the city, something beyond the sorrow at parting from a comrade touched me. A sense of foreboding, of coming danger, crept into my heart. But I was going upon the tamest possible excursion; for the first time in my life I was submitting to the direction of another,—albeit one who lay in the grave. How like my grandfather it was, to die leaving this compulsion upon me ! My mood changed suddenly, and as the boat bumped at the pier I laughed.

“Bah! these men!” ejaculated Larry.

“What men?” I demanded, giving my bags to a porter.

“These men who are in love,” he said. “I know the signs,—mooning, silence, sudden inexplicable laughter! I hope I’ll not be in jail when you’re married.”

“You’ll be in a long time if they hold you for that. Here’s my train.”

We talked of old times, and of future meetings, during the few minutes that remained.

“You can write me at my place of rustication,” I said, scribbling “Annandale, Wabana County, Indiana” on a card. “Now if you need me at any time I’ll come to you wherever you are. You understand that, old man. Good-by.”

“Write me, care of my father—he’ll have my address, though this last row of mine made him pretty hot.”

I passed through the gate and down the long train to my sleeper. Turning, with my foot on the step, I waved a farewell to Larry, who stood outside watching me.

In a moment the heavy train was moving slowly out into the night upon its westward journey.

CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES