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 pocket of the overcoat, turned it inside out, raised his head, listened a moment, and proceeded to apply the sharp point of the vegetable-knife to a row of coarse black linen stitches. When he had ripped a slot big enough for his hand he pushed it down deep between the coat and its lining, and pulled out a folded paper from the far lower corner.

He had hidden the paper there a week ago and sewed the pocket up afterward. But now there was no more necessity to hide the paper. There was no more necessity to keep the paper. He could give it back to Mr. Fairchild now, and explain just how it happened. An accident, pure and simple. He hadn't stolen the paper.

It had happened that the very week after the doctor had talked to Felix about Sheilah, and the very day after Felix had tremblingly asked for a raise in his salary, and been refused, Mr. Fairchild, his employer, went down to the bank to cut coupons, and took Felix with him. They were closeted in a small sealed cell, underground, for an hour or more.

Mr. Fairchild was not a very systematic man. He was always misplacing his pencil, or pen, or glasses. His safe-deposit box bulged with disorder. On the particular morning he had asked Felix to accompany him to the bank, Mr. Fairchild had torn off his cou-