Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one
eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor--to find that
he had disappeared.

"B'gee!" muttered Thomas, "this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn't
wonder if it ain't one of these Moravian Nights' adventures that you
read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy."

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated
globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant
electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
portieres parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the
room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate
taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy
hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave
him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can conceive
a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah's throne-room advancing to greet a
visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his
manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t's_ to be mindful of his
_p's_ and _q's_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat
terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

"Say, doc," said he resentfully, "that's a hot bird you keep on tap.