"The Reverend Paul Stoddard, sir."

The chaplain of St. Agatha's was a big fellow, as I

had remarked on the occasion of his interview with

Olivia Gladys Armstrong by the wall. His light brown

hair was close-cut; his smooth-shaven face was bright

with the freshness of youth. Here was a sturdy young

apostle without frills, but with a vigorous grip that left

my hand tingling. His voice was deep and musical,-a

voice that suggested sincerity and inspired confidence.

"I'm afraid I haven't been neighborly, Mr. Glenarm.

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I was called away from home a few days after I heard

of your arrival, and I have just got back. I blew in

yesterday with the snow-storm."

He folded his arms easily and looked at me with

cheerful directness, as though politely interested in what

manner of man I might be.

"It was a fine storm; I got a great day out of it," I

said. "An Indiana snow-storm is something I have

never experienced before."

"This is my second winter. I came out here because

I wished to do some reading, and thought I'd rather do

it alone than in a university."

"Studious habits are rather forced on one out here,

I should say. In my own case my course of reading

is all cut out for me."

He ran his eyes over the room.

"The Glenarm collection is famous,-the best in the

country, easily. Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, was

certainly an enthusiast. I met him several times; he

was a trifle hard to meet,"-and the clergyman smiled.

I felt rather uncomfortable, assuming that he probably

knew I was undergoing discipline, and why my

grandfather had so ordained it. The Reverend Paul

Stoddard was so simple, unaffected and manly a fellow

that I shrank from the thought that I must appear to

him an ungrateful blackguard whom my grandfather

had marked with obloquy.

"My grandfather had his whims; but he was a fine,

generous-hearted old gentleman," I said.

"Yes; in my few interviews with him he surprised

me by the range of his knowledge. He was quite able

to instruct me in certain curious branches of church

history that had appealed to him."

"You were here when he built the house, I suppose?"

My visitor laughed cheerfully.

"I was on my side of the barricade for a part of the

time. You know there was a great deal of mystery

about the building of this house. The country-folk

hereabouts can't quite get over it. They have a superstition

that there's treasure buried somewhere on the

place. You see, Mr. Glenarm wouldn't employ any local

labor. The work was done by men he brought from

afar,-none of them, the villagers say, could speak English.

They were all Greeks or Italians."

"I have heard something of the kind," I remarked,

feeling that here was a man who with a little cultivating

might help me to solve some of my riddles.




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