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 Mr. Marple smiled indulgently,—a paternal version of Rhoda.

"Roofing is a pretty prosaic proposition," he reminded his godson.

"All the more reason for presenting it poetically," argued Grover, warming to his theme. "A roof's a roof, which nobody can deny. But it's also the thing that shelters a home and keeps it cozy. This—" he flipped his fingers across the uninspired illustration, "is only the top of a house!"

Despite his air of indulgence, the older man was impressed. Though belonging to a cautious generation, his success had been largely due to his willingness to listen to new ideas: witness the leeway he had given to his own daughter, and Grover knew how radical she could be when roused.

"I don't know a thing about rubber roofing, despite all you've just told me," said Grover, "but I'll bet a hat I could turn out a more convincing folder than any of these—words and pictures."

"I'll take you up on that," said Mr. Marple. "Try your hand."

Grover laughed. "Now I'm getting cold feet," he said. But he took the folders away with him and promised to have some exhibits to show Mr. Marple on his return from Germany, several weeks hence.

He left the hotel curiously sad. There was a look in the old man's eyes—the look that had been in his