demanded of that languid gentleman.

"Very possibly. What's the inducement?"

"Chapter Second of the Bellair Street advertisement. I've told you
the first chapter. You've been the god-outside-the-machine so far.
Now, come on in."

Together they went to the Greenwich Village house. The name "Smith"
had disappeared from the vestibule.

"As I expected," said Jones. "Our hope be in the landlord!"

The landlord turned out to be a German landlady, who knew little
concerning her late ground-floor tenant and evinced no interest in
the subject. The "perfessor," as she termed "Smith," had taken the
flat by the month, was prompt in payment, quiet in habit, given to
long and frequent absences; had been there hardly at all in the last
few weeks. Where had he moved to? Hummel only knew! He had left
no address. Where did his furniture go? Nowhere; he'd left it
behind. Was any one in the house acquainted with him? Mrs. Marron
in the other ground-floor flat had tried to be. Not much luck, she
thought.

Mrs. Marron was voluble, ignorant, and a willing source of
information.

"The perfessor? Sure! I knew'm. 'Twas me give'm the name. He was
a Mejum. Naw! Not for money. Too swell for that. But a real-thing
Mejum. A big one; one of the kind it comes to, nacheral.