FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT Doctor Keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent state of great mental enjoyment.

At times he would smile and close his eyes, open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly and smile again.

And when the rain and wind, all tangled together, came against the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almost to laughter.
"He's in it," he murmured, "he's just reaching there.

I would give fifty dollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees where he is." As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man, Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outward opening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with the vigorous haste of a man in the rain.

As they parted, he hurriedly helped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape which shuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down the bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properly goes with a ducking, looked to see where he was.
One object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--set his gaze.