swallowed a precautionary formaldehyde tablet, unlocked a drawer of
his desk, fished out a photograph, and gazed intently upon it.

It was the photograph of his Philadelphia affianced. Her first name
was Arethusa. To him there was a nameless fragrance about her name.
And sweetly, subtly, gradually the lovely phantasm of Miss Evelyn
Erith faded, vanished into the thin and frigid atmosphere of his
office.

That was his antidote to Miss Erith--the intent inspection of his
fiancee's very beautiful features as inadequately reproduced by an
expensive and fashionable Philadelphia photographer.

It did the business for Miss Erith every time.

The evening was becoming one of the coldest ever recorded in New
York. The thermometer had dropped to 8 degrees below zero and was
still falling. Fifth Avenue glittered, sheathed in frost; traffic
police on post stamped and swung their arms to keep from freezing;
dry snow underfoot squeaked when trodden on; crossings were greasy
with glare ice.

It was, also, one of those meatless, wheatless, heatless nights when
the privation which had hitherto amused New York suddenly became an
ugly menace. There was no coal to be had and only green wood. The
poor quietly died, as usual; the well-to-do ventured a hod and a
stick or two in open grates, or sat huddled under rugs over oil or
electric stoves; or migrated to comfortable hotels. And bachelors
took to their clubs. That is where Clifford Vaux went from his
chilly bachelor lodgings. He fled in a taxi, buried cheek-deep in