4020 Madison Avenue at eight o'clock this evening."

Jeckley was lighting his cigar, and so did not observe my start of
surprise. Have I said that Jeckley was a newspaper man? One of the
new school of journalism, a creature who would stick at nothing in
the manufacture of a sensation. The Scare-Head is his god, and he
holds nothing else sacred in heaven and earth. He would sacrifice--
but perhaps I'm unjust to Jeckley; maybe it's only his bounce and
flourish that I detest. Furthermore, I'm a little afraid of him; I
don't want to be written up.

"Esper Indiman," I read aloud. "Don't know him."

"Ever heard the name?" asked Jeckley.

I temporized. "It's unfamiliar, certainly."

Jeckley looked gloomy. "Nobody seems to know him," he said. "And
the name isn't to be found in the directory, telephone-book, or
social register."

Wonderful fellows, these newspaper men; I never should have thought
of going for Mr. Indiman like that.

"But why and wherefore?" I asked, cautiously.

"A mystery, my son. The card was shoved into my hand not half an
hour ago."

"Where?"