CHAPTER SIX.

Harold Girard; through lies, managed to abscond from the queer-looking midget who came into the pedantic office of his lecturer, a minute after he crawled out of the benighted cavern. 

If he had been as much as three minutes later than he was, he would have been seen at the very moment of his writhing out of the opening like a worm, and even worse, he'd have been expelled-or killed-and his blood fed to the brutes in the cavern, solely because of the information that was now microfilmed in his memory and etched in his heart.

On the outside of the mysterious office, Harold saw students going about their businesses-which was making most gaiety of the winsome sundown, in troops and 'gangs' and dressed in fancy garbs and distinct attires, after a long day of erudition.

His hazelnut-coloured eyeballs chaperoned a group of four that bantered and quipped as they sauntered down the hallway; not minding the large quota their voices added to the forthcoming ca