Rudyard Kipling 235 — here followed Maisie’s name, and the names of the two banks that held the money. “It mayn’t be quite regular, but no one has a shadow of a right to dispute it, and I’ve given Maisie’s address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. This is my signature; I want you and your wife to witness it. Thanks. Tomorrow you must take me to the landlord and I’ll pay forfeit for leaving without notice, and I'll lodge this paper with him in case anything happens while I’m away. Now we're going to light up the studio stove. Stay with me, and give me my papers as I want ’em.” No one knows until he has tried how fine a blaze a year's accumulation of bills, letters, and dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove every document in the studio — saving only three unopened letters; destroyed sketch-books, rough notebooks, new and halffinished canvases alike. “What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him if he stays long enough in one place, to be sure,” said Mr. Beeton, at last. “He does. Is there anything more left?” Dick felt round the walls. “Not a thing, and the stove’s nigh red-hot.” “Excellent, and you've lost about a thousand pounds’ worth of sketches. Ho! ho! Quite a thousand pounds’ worth, if I can remember what I used to be.” “Yes, sir,” politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure that Dick had gone mad, otherwise he would have never parted with his excellent furniture for a song. The canvas things took up storage room and were much better out of the way. There remained only to leave the little will in safe hands: that could not be accomplished to tomorrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the last pieces of paper, assured himself again and again that there remained no written word or sign of his past life in