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was in cheerful, smiling mood. He put some grapes on the bed, asked how I felt, and told me about his trip to Patterson and his failure to get the organist job. "It's bitterly cold," he said.

"I was glad of your overcoat. You have been a brick," he added, "but I'll make it all up to you when my luck turns." He crossed over to the sofa and sat down, stretching himself, obviously tired out.

"Never mind, old chap; we shall get along somehow. Probably Kay will send us something more before long. He's always faithful. Let's see," I went on casually, "when was it we heard from him last?"

"A week ago," said Boyde quite naturally. "Toronto, wasn't it? Or Buffalo—no, no, Toronto."

We laughed together. "So it was," I agreed carelessly. Then I pretended to hesitate. "But that was nearly a fortnight ago," I suddenly corrected my memory; "surely we've heard since that. Only the other day—or did I dream it?"

Boyde stared at me lazily through the cigarette smoke. "No, I think not," he said quietly. "There was only the one letter." He showed no sign of disturbance.

I lay still, pretending to think back a bit, then heaved myself slowly up in bed.

"But, Boyde, I remember the letter," I exclaimed with conviction, staring into his face, "I'm certain I do—another letter. Why, of course! I remember your showing it to me. There was a cheque in it—a cheque for seventy-five dollars!"

His easy laugh, his voice and manner, the perfect naturalness of his reply made me feel sure that I was in the wrong. He knew absolutely nothing of the cheque Rh