tying around him as Van Bibber entered. He was partly
undressed, and had been just on the point of getting into bed.
Mr. Caruthers was a tall, handsome man, with dark reddish
hair, turning below the temples into gray; his mustache was
quite white, and his eyes and face showed the signs of either
dissipation or of great trouble, or of both. But even in the
formless dressing-gown he had the look and the confident
bearing of a gentleman, or, at least, of the man of the world.
The room was very rich-looking, and was filled with the medley
of a man's choice of good paintings and fine china, and
papered with irregular rows of original drawings and signed
etchings. The windows were open, and the lights were turned
very low, so that Van Bibber could see the many gas lamps and
the dark roofs of Broadway and the Avenue where they crossed
a few blocks off, and the bunches of light on the Madison
Square Garden, and to the lights on the boats of the East
River. From below in the streets came the rattle of hurrying
omnibuses and the rush of the hansom cabs. If Mr. Caruthers
was surprised at this late visit, he hid it, and came forward
to receive his caller as if his presence were expected.

"Excuse my costume, will you?" he said. "I turned in
rather early to-night, it was so hot." He pointed to a
decanter and some soda bottles on the table and a bowl of ice,
and asked, "Will you have some of this?" And while he opened
one of the bottles, he watched Van Bibber's face as though he
were curious to have him explain the object of his visit.
"No, I think not, thank you," said the younger man. He
touched his forehead with his handkerchief nervously. "Yes, it
is hot," he said.