Young Pendleton's car crept carefully around the corner and wound in
and out among the push-cart men and dirty children.

About midway in the block was a square-built house with tall,
small-paned windows and checkered with black-headed brick. It stood
slightly back from the street with ancient dignity; upon the shining
door-plate, deeply bitten in angular text, was the name "Ashton-Kirk."

Here the car stopped; Pendleton got out, ascended the white marble
steps and tugged at the polished, old-fashioned bell-handle.

A grave-faced German, in dark livery, opened the door.

"Mr. Ashton-Kirk will see you, sir," said he. "I gave him your
telephone message as soon as he came down."

"Thank you, Stumph," said Pendleton. And with the manner of one
perfectly acquainted with the house, he ascended a massively
balustraded staircase. The walls were darkly paneled; from the
shadowy recesses pictured faces of men and women looked down at him.

Coming in from the littered street, with its high smells and crowding,
gesticulating people, the house impressed one by its quiet, its
spaciousness, and the evident means and culture of its owner.
Pendleton turned off at the first landing, proceeded along a passage
and finally knocked at a door. Without waiting for a reply, he walked
in.

At the far end of a long, high-ceilinged apartment a young man was
lounging in an easy-chair. At his elbow was a jar of tobacco, a sheaf