though he had but few patients and these of the poorer sort who were unable to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for his needs. He slept in the oflice that was unspeakably dirty and dined at Bifi Carter’s lunch room in a small frame building opposite the railroad station. In the summer the lunch room was filled with flies and Bifi Carter’s white apron was more dirty than his floor. Doctor Parcival did not mind. Into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter. “Feed me_ what you wish for that,” he said laughing. “Use up food that you wouldn’t otherwise sell. It makes no difierence to me. I am a man of distinction, you see. Why should I concern myself with what I eat.”

The tales that Doctor Parcival told George Willard began nowhere and ended nowhere. Sometimes the boy thought they must all be inven- tions, a pack of lies. And then again he was convinced that they contained the very essence of truth.

“I was a reporter like you here,” Doctor Par- cival began. “It was in a town in Iowa—or was it in Illinois? I don’t remember and anyway it makes no diFference. Perhaps I am trying to conceal my identity and don’t want to be very definite. Have you ever thought it strange that I have money for my needs although I do nothing? I may have stolen a great sum of money or been