Here the Juggernaut car of King Alcohol was rolling on remorselessly,
crushing out all life save the frenzied dream of the dipsomaniac.

But the lad paused and shook his head as he noted the windows of
the old English basement tightly barred. The parlor floor, bearing
the gilded sign, "Parisian Millinery Repository," was darkened, and,
above, the three upper floors presented only an array of undraped
windows solidly shut off by white-enamelled inside folding blinds.
The decorous-looking main entrance bore but one card, in script,
"Raffoni, Musical Director."

For years the neighborhood had forgotten its curiosity over the
foreign-looking men and women who passed the vigilant Cerberus at
the stately oaken door. No daring book-agent, no pedlar of indurated
cheek, no outside barbarian had ever crossed that guarded portal,
for a brass chain of impregnable strength prevented any intrusion,
and only a glimpse of the old tesselated marble floor rewarded the
frightened interloper.

It was "No Thoroughfare" to the multitude, and the quaint visitors
were either personally conducted or used latch-keys.

The over-fed policeman sucking his club in front of 192 Layte only
smiled in answer to vague inquiry, "Private house, belongs to old
family estate, people in Europe," and then with a leer would drop
into the "Valkyrie" for a fistful of good cigars and a flask of
the very best.

The timid young scoundrel lingering before 192 on this fresh,
starry night was the only "outsider" who knew what deadly master