another drink. Passing a line of billboards, he noticed a brightly
colored poster advertising a brand of collars. In sheer light-
heartedness he drew a soft pencil from his waistcoat and adorned
the comely young man on the collar poster with a heavy mustache.

Caraway Street, with which he had not previously been familiar,
proved to be a quaint little channel of old brick houses, leading
into the bonfire of the summer sunset. There was nothing to
distinguish number 1316 from its neighbors. He rang the bell, and
there ensued a rapid clicking in the lock, indicating that the
latch had been released by some one within. He pushed the door
open, and entered.

He had a curious sensation of having stepped into an old Flemish
painting. The hall in which he stood was cool and rather dark,
though a bright refraction of light tossed from some upper window
upon a tall mirror filled the shadow with broken spangles. Through
an open doorway at the rear was the green glimmer of a garden. In
front of him was a mahogany sideboard. On its polished top lay two
books, a box of cigars, and a cut glass decanter surrounded by
several glasses. In the decanter was a pale yellow fluid which
held a beam of light. The house was completely silent.

Somewhat abashed, he removed his hat and stood irresolute,
expecting some greeting. But nothing happened. On a rack against
the wall he saw a gray uniform coat like that which Mr. Quimbleton
had worn in the Balloon office, and a similar gray cap with the
silver monogram. He glanced at the books. One was The Rubaiyat of
Omar Khayyam, the other was a Bible, open at the second chapter of
John. He was looking curiously at the decanter when a voice