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 pleasant memories. He turned to the side- board and helped himself to a whisky and soda.

“T drink to you,” he said, holding up the glass—“T drink to you, dear ghosts of other days.”

He stood, eyes sharp, ears alert, as though listening for some response. Out in the street a van clattered by; then softly there came up to him the jingle of harness bells. His smile deepened. He was in a cab rushing through the night, and beside him was a woman in thick furs who was too frightened to speak. She had given him much trouble. He had pur- sued her through wood and valley, over stream, mountain, but he had brought her to bay at last. And the little collar bells were now jingling triumphantly.

“It was good hunting,” he said; “and the fool thinks she can escape. Here’s to you, Irene. It must come, you know.”

Her photograph was in the handsomest frame of all. It was a wonderful picture, and seemed to palpitate with life. There were the pouting, scornful lips, the little line between the eyes, the heavy brows. And she was look-

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