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 it. Suddenly, opening it again, he thrust in his head, and fixed the young man with a long scrutiny.

"I don't see what it is about you," he declared, as if in deep perplexity. "Why didn't I pull trigger then? Hmph! And do you recall kicking me once? What do you think? Turned Christian, or am I feyhey [sic]? You're beyond me. … And yet talk of your open books.…"

He withdrew his head, shut the door, and departed. After a space, however, he returned and looked in once more, grinning sourly:

"That must be the reason why you can never read any one else. That Holborow girl—nice little thing: may interest you to know, she's head over heels in love with a young idiot."

This time he was gone forever, leaving Scarlett bolt upright, with his mind in a whirl.

And yet this final message, which at the dawn