ing. I'm like thousands and thousands of people in this world who are simply shadows to everybody else."
"Remember we're to tell the truth," she said. "No one ever honestly thinks that about themselves—that they are just shadows of somebody else. Every one has their own secret importance for themselves—at least, every one in our village had. People you would have supposed had nothing in them, yet if you talked to them you soon saw that they fancied that the world would end if they weren't in it to make it go round."
"Well, honestly, that isn't my opinion of myself," Harkness answered. "I don't think that I help the world to go round at all. Of course, I think that there have to be all the ordinary people in it like myself to appreciate all the doings and sayings of the others, the geniuses—to make the audience. There are so many things I don't care for."
"What do you care for?"
"Oh, different things at different times—not permanently for much. Pictures—especially etchings—music, travel. But never very deeply or urgently, except for the etchings.... Until to-night," he suddenly added, lowering his voice.
"Until to-night?"
"Yes, ever since I left Paddington—let me see—how many hours ago? It's now about two o'clock, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Ten min-
