But after a long silence the mother said:  “I will send him a photograph of the children.  Do you think he will understand?”

Down at Seabright, Hastings and his wife walked in the sunken garden.  The moon was so bright that the roses still held their color.

“I would like to thank him,” said the young wife.  She meant the Young Man of Wall Street.  “But for him we would have lost this.”

Her eyes caressed the garden, the fruit-trees, the house with wide, hospitable verandas.  “To-morrow I will send him some of these roses,” said the young wife.  “Will he understand that they mean our home?”

At a scandalously late hour, in a scandalous spirit of independence, Champ Thorne and Barbara were driving around Central Park in a taxicab.

“How strangely the Lord moves, his wonders to perform,” misquoted Barbara.  “Had not the Young Man of Wall Street saved Mr. Hastings, Mr. Hastings could not have raised your salary; you would not have asked me to marry you, and had you not asked me to marry you, father would not have given me a wedding-present, and—­”

“And,” said Champ, taking up the tale, “thousands of slaves would still be buried in the jungles, hidden away from their wives and children and the light of the sun and their fellow men.  They still would be dying of fever, starvation, tortures.”

He took her hand in both of his and held her finger-tips against his lips.

“And they will never know,” he whispered, “when their freedom comes, that they owe it all to you.”

* * * * *

On Hunter’s Island, Jimmie Reeder and his bunkie, Sam Sturges, each on his canvas cot, tossed and twisted.  The heat, the moonlight, and the mosquitoes would not let them even think of sleep.

“That was bully,” said Jimmie, “what you did to-day about saving that dog.  If it hadn’t been for you he’d ha’ drownded.”

“He would not!” said Sammy with punctilious regard for the truth; “it wasn’t deep enough.”

“Well, the scout-master ought to know,” argued Jimmie; “he said it was the best ‘one good turn’ of the day!”

Modestly Sam shifted the lime-light so that it fell upon his bunkie.

“I’ll bet,” he declared loyally, “your ‘one good turn’ was a better one!”

Jimmie yawned, and then laughed scornfully.

“Me!” he scoffed.  “I didn’t do nothing.  I sent my sister to the movies.”

THE FRAME-UP

When the voice over the telephone promised to name the man who killed Hermann Banf, District Attorney Wharton was up-town lunching at Delmonico’s.  This was contrary to his custom and a concession to Hamilton Cutler, his distinguished brother-in-law.  That gentleman was interested in a State constabulary bill and had asked State Senator Bissell to father it.  He had suggested to the senator that, in the legal points involved in the bill, his brother-in-law would undoubtedly be charmed to advise him.  So that morning, to talk it over, Bissell had come from Albany and, as he was forced to return the same afternoon, had asked Wharton to lunch with him up-town near the station.