Illustrations for "The Circle of Seven" are by Stuart A. Pizer '66, a staff member of the Harvard Lampoon.

A few inveterate Crimson readers will recall with nostalgia H. Lewiss's chilling serial "The Circle of Seven," the first five episodes of which appeared in these pages during the spring of 1962. Mr. Lewiss's accidental death in an avalanche on Die Jungfrau brought the series to an untimely (and most unfinished) end. Now, at last, the Crimson is able to publish the entire story, for the late author's younger brother, C. Lewiss, a graduate student in Mineralogy, has completed the manuscript and kindly made available a final version of this mystery masterpiece. Episodes of "The Circle of Seven" will appear irregularly in issues of the Crimson.

A warm April wind played softly through the sandy hair of Biff Bundie, as he walked briskly under the bridge connecting Houghton and Widener libraries on the first day of his new assignment as University undercover agent. A broad smile played brightly across his face, and he was whistling, for everything seemed as sunny as the day.

He had recently exposed an undergraduate counterfeiting ring so successfully, that the Chief had promoted him to special plain-clothes man, a position created just for Biff. Now as he strolled along, disguised as Kevin Stoddard Heath '61, a third year graduate student in English, he eyed everything around him as if it might bear close inspection.

As he passed in front of Emerson Hall, the Memorial Church bells chimed noon. Bundie quickened his pace in order to avoid the crowd which was soon to pour out of Sever's west door. He fingered the lapels of his new Coop sports jacket and lit his Leavitt and Peirce pipe thus completing his disguise.

"How well I fit in," he thought. "They all think they're so smart around here, but they'd never suspect..." Yet even before he finished this reflection, Bundie felt something slam into him and knock him off his feet. Picking himself up from the path, he saw a small foreign-looking man with dark glasses scramble up from the ground and rush over to him.

"Ach ecksoos me. I am so klumtsee!"

"Definitely a foreign accent," Biff thought. The fellow was now attempting to dust off Bundie's jacket.

"Don't worry about it," said Biff. "It could happen to any..." But the stranger had turned and was gone, swallowed up by the hordes pouring out of Sever. Bundie sighed and changed his course. Before he knew it, he had arrived at the University Restaurant and was sitting over a cup of coffee.

"Say, do you have a match?" a voice in the next booth called out. As Biff turned and inspected the head which hung over the divider between the two booths he noted that the young man wore thick glasses. Bundie reached into his coat pocket, but stopped short as he felt his hand fall upon a small package. Slowly he drew it out and eyed it carefully. "It's not mine," he stated half-aloud. "In fact I've never seen it before."

"Pardon, what did you say?" asked the myopic student, but Bundie merely stared at the parcel. The student muttered something and turned back to his seat.

Bundie paused as if thinking and then began untying the string which bound up his newly acquired possession. He let out a low whistle as he lifted off the lid. Inside was a simple white card on which was printed a Roman numeral seven, enclosed in a circle. Under the card he found a small pouch of greenish tobacco.

Cautiously Biff sniffed. He leaned closer, and suddenly, like some great sliderule his mind slipped to the solution--"Marijuana! I'd better get back to the office. The chief should be interested in this." He stuffed the evidence back into his pocket and dashed out the door.

"Hey!" wailed a portly waitress, "You didn't pay for your coffee." But the young detective had disappeared into Harvard Square's passing parade of pedestrians.

As Bundie hurried toward Grays Hall, dozens of Chem 20 students were entering the organic chemistry laboratories on the second floor of Mallinckrodt for one of their twice-a-week labs. But this not to be an ordinary session in the wonders of carbon compounds.

"Mr. Croit, I'm having trouble with my trans-stilbene," wailed one budding researcher to his unsympathetic section man.

"Well, why don't you dissolve it in ether and pour it out the window," was the reply. "Stupid people," thought the section man. "I could be elucidating the mechanism of cyclobutadiene synthesis, and they put me in charge of mewling infants."

"Bastard," snapped the angry student to the person at the desk beside him. "They don't care whether you learn anything in this lab. But I'll take the first part of his advice, any-