Elevated.

"I suppose you don't go my way?" he said to Carroll, wistfully.

"No," said Carroll, smiling and shaking the ashes from his cigar.
Both men had smoked all the way across--Carroll's cigars.

"And I tell you they were the real thing," Lee told his admiring wife
that night. "Cost fifteen cents apiece, if they cost a penny; no
cheap cigars for him, I can tell you."

Carroll said good-morning out of his atmosphere of fragrant smoke,
and Lee, with a parting wave of the hand, began his climb of the
Elevated stairs. He cast a backward look at Carroll's broad, gray
shoulders swinging up the street. Even a momentary glimpse was enough
to get a strong impression of the superiority of the man among the
crowd of ordinary men hastening to their offices.

"I wonder where he is going? I wonder where his office is?" Lee said
to himself, accelerating his pace a little as the station began to
quiver with an approaching train.

What Lee asked himself many another man in Banbridge asked, but no
one knew. No one dared to put the question directly to Carroll
himself.

Arthur Carroll had never been a man who opened wide all the doors of
his secrets of life to all his friends and acquaintances. Some had
one entrance, some another, and it is probable that he always
reserved ways of entrance and egress unknown to any except himself.