cannot be happy and at peace if the members are dissatisfied with life or envious of each other. The family peace depends much more on the disposition of father, mother and children than on circumstances. No amount of prosperity and good fortune will keep a bad-tempered family from quarreling; and the natural laws which operate in the family group operate also in larger groups. As with the family so with the nation.

Man is a fighting animal but as Bertrand Russell says, the enemy should be an impersonal one. The struggle is against his own lower passions. Let him set as his goal the development of capacity in himself and take his covetous eyes from his neighbor's goods or his neighbor's prosperity. His self of yesterday should be his only rival.

We sigh for world peace and base our educational systems on rivalry, and teach our children to want and to get, want more and get more. We deplore the fact that nations contend with each other for a place in the sun, and our social life revolves around the ambition to "keep up with the Joneses!" We want to be philosophers and philanthropists as nations while as individuals we cultivate the "go-getter spirit" with all that it implies of self-absorption and consequent lawlessness under strain. Like Penelope who unraveled by night what she had woven by day, we seem busy but accomplish nothing.

And we might accomplish much! The vessels are waiting, if they could but be filled. Methods are already elaborated by which the inevitable differences between nations may be settled without war, but they fail because we have not practised on the small stage of home life the worthy part we aspire to play in world affairs. The home should supply the soil in which are fostered those human qualities which are the roots of peace. An atmosphere of pretension and ambition cannot produce fact-thinking, truth-seeking adults. Destroy old institutions and install a Utopia without having educated the individual and he will soon resurrect the old institutions.

Let us come down out of our ivory towers and instead of shivering away from the disconcerting aspects of life, fearlessly acknowledge them as part of our problem. How can we expect national wisdom until we ourselves are more vigorous and honest-minded? The energizing force needed for the great international movements is in us, in every man, every woman and every child. Let us not follow our great thinkers with such lagging footsteps, but live on the forward edge of this swift-moving cycle in which even nations are growing up into adult international groups and facing the day when they will be united in that harmony of relationship whereby the planets swing together in their ordered

movement.

sham, had sold and sold, under a score of disguises in the way of fancy names. The very money-lenders Frensham had been forced, as time went on, to approach and use, had been the puppets of Strang and his associates, additional instruments in the squeeze.

Jimmy Frensham thought how easily his two great hands could lift slender little Louis, caress him for much less than a minute, and drop him dead and ugly; and then Harris brought him the missing fountainpen. The thought of the man's sick wife returned to Frensham, and he felt a sudden tremendous elation because he was a bachelor. He pulled open one of the small drawers of the bureau.

"I'm getting careless. Could you find me a stamp? And I'll have some coffee to-night, I think."

Harris hesitated, and Jimmy Frensham laughed. "I'll have coffee all the same. Doctors don't know everything, Harris.”

And he thought, "Nor Harris, either. Nor James Frensham, for that matter. I'm going to enjoy that coffee. And I'll get him to bring in the brandy-I don't see why I shouldn't!"

He did enjoy the coffee. He gave himself five minutes with the evening paper, and he enjoyed that also, for he was tolerant and happy, except when he thought of Louis Strang. He fancied himself standing in the wings, unseen, and watching with amusement the colorful play of the world he knew. There was a surprise for him in the news. The paper featured a portrait of Lady Alison Fortess, and the exclusive announcement of her engagement to Mr.

Louis Strang, the millionaire financier. Frensham laughed without resentment.

"Why, that's Worthing's daughter," he said to himself. "The little dago's climbing high! Top of the tree!"

He went out into the quiet of King's Square, and loved the blue gentleness of the summer night. It was half past nine. The last collection, from the pillar-box at the farther corner, was at five minutes past ten. The driver of a cruising taxi, seeing the big man without a coat, bareheaded and in evening clothes, summarized him as a regular toff, and was proud of the London that brought him his daily bread.

At twenty minutes to ten Harris heard Jimmy Frensham return. Jimmy Frensham, unlocking another drawer of the bureau, said cheerfully to himself, "I'd like to have another smack at Master Louis"; but that is not in evidence. At a quarter to ten, Harris heard the shot, and dashed upstairs to the study. Jimmy Frensham was dead, and Harris saw that he was smiling, and cried like a baby. The jungle never displays a dead heat. There can be only one winner.

humble pilgrim, for whom the gates of the temple on the mountaintop were suddenly flung open without demur. Lady Alison was the symbol of his marvelous success. What a triumph!

"Poor Jimmy Frensham's shot himself," he whispered to the man who was having supper with him, and Rogers set his cigar at a steep angle and laughed. Rogers had been on the right side in the battle with Imperial Supplies.

"Cut that out, Louis," he sneered. "The sob stuff doesn't go. You mean that you and I and the rest of the crowd have bumped Jimmy Frensham off where he can't do any harm. And you didn't mind what dirty tricks you used to do it, either. It's a good job for you that your swell Lady Alison doesn't understand business. She "

"I don't want any mention of Lady Alison from you," flamed Louis, but Rogers was unruffled.

"It doesn't interest me much," he retorted. "I'm saying that Jimmy always scared you to death, and that you'd never have stood up to him in a ring, even if he had a hand tied behind his back. He's out, and we've cleared half a million; but he was something you'll never be a good fellow and a fair fighter! It's worth another bottle of Roederer. Call the waiter."

"I wasn't afraid of him," declared Louis, but he had to think before he said it.

"Oh, no,' ," said Rogers indifferently. "I'm sorry you're upset by the news. That's what I meant to say. You needn't be afraid of him any more, need you?"

And the thought that he need no

longer be afraid of Frensham was indeed the laurel of victory. It rested Strang's little soul as he sipped his wine. It was good for him that he welcomed and gave thanks for his peace at that moment. It was good for him that he slept well that night. He was to know little sleep in the days ahead of him.

"When's your wedding?" "Inside a month from now," Strang told him happily.

Rogers grunted. "I'd like to know what you're paying old Worthing. Well, now I'll be able to buy you something worth while, Louis. It's a pity you've got a Rolls already. Where are you going to live? Portland Place, or just heaven-till she finds you out?"

Strang hated him.

On the next morning, Friday, Strang's sense of pleasure was still bright and keen. Then, among the letters they brought to his bedroom, he saw the handwriting of Jimmy Frensham, and felt sick. Damn him! It wasn't good manners of the fellow, to worry him now.

He put it aside. He took up the other letters. Jimmy Frensham's handwriting stared at him from the quilt, so he turned the letter over, and had an odd feeling of being wise and clever. Why couldn't he open the other letters and read them? He made a snatch at the letter and tore open the envelop, hot and resentful because of the absurd notion that something was making him do this against his will.

What on earth could Jimmy have to write to him about, in that thin scrawl which had always seemed such a curious contradiction of his open

and generous personality? Strang had already, to feed his pleasure, looked at the newspapers, and read Harris's story. Frensham had gone to post a letter, the butler had thought. And here it was. It must be the last thing Jimmy Frensham had written.

There wasn't much of it.

"I am desperate. I have made up my mind to see you again. I will come to see you next Thursday evening at Hanover Place, exactly at ten. Wait for me.

Jimmy."

Louis rang the bell. When his man came, he held out the blue envelop.

"Are you sure that this letter was delivered here this morning?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"There's no chance of its having been in the flat some time-overlooked in some way-is there?"

"None at all, sir. I remember seeing it with the others this morning, when I unlocked the letter-box." The man was plainly bewildered. "Wouldn't the postmark tell you, sir?"

Louis sweated. What a fool he was! In the shock of his first thought it had never occurred to him to examine the postmark. He was betraying the fear that already had begun to destroy him. The man was staring at him. Louis was holding out the letter. He snatched it back, and fumbled with a lie to excuse his inquiry.

"I couldn't quite make it out." Now, holding the letter close to his eyes, he murmured, "I can see it now. It's quite all right, thanks. It was posted last evening. Thanks."

The door shut. Louis Strang, drawing in his breath, shivered. It was a fine morning. Into the sunniest room of the big flat in Hanover Place, he imagined a darkness creeping, a darkness slow and cold.

Let's see, what did Harris say? Mr. Frensham wanted his fountainpen. Mr. Frensham asked him for a stamp. But at the time he made these requests, Louis Strang reflected, Frensham must already have made up his mind to do away with himself. He wanted these things, reasoned Louis, in a slow and child-like way, to write a letter-this letter. Mr. Frensham went out at half past nine, and Harris heard him return at twenty minutes to ten. At fifteen minutes to ten Harris heard the shot that signaled full stop for Jimmy Frensham.

Jimmy Frensham's purpose in leaving the house had been to post this letter, this letter that was half a threat, half a command. "Wait for me-"

Strang slipped out of bed and locked the door. It wouldn't do for anybody else to see this letter. As he put on a dressing-gown, his eyes were still fixed on the blue envelop, the blue letter; and both letter and envelop seemed alive and menacing.

It meant a bit of courage to reach out for the envelop, to verify the postmark with the time of collection, 10:05. Somebody in the sunlit room, in a voice exasperated and angry, said suddenly "Stop now!" Louis started. It was a second before he realized that he was talking aloud.

The thought that Frensham might have written the letter earlier in the day was responsible for Strang's exclamation. Suppose Frensham had