his eyes. The rapid motion confused him still. The car stopped, and the
metallic gates clanged open. Darrow obediently stepped forth. Only when
the elevator had disappeared did his upward glance bring to him the
knowledge that he had disembarked one floor too soon.

Darrow's eye fell on a lettered sign outside the nearest door. He smiled a
slow red-lipped smile beneath his small silky mustache, drooped his black
eyelashes in a flicker of reminiscence, hesitated a moment, then stepped
languidly forward and opened the door. The sign indicated the headquarters
of the very modest commissionership behind which McCarthy chose to work.
McCarthy, quite simply, at that time owned New York.

As Darrow entered, McCarthy hung up the telephone receiver with a smash,
and sat glaring at the instrument. After a moment he turned his small
bright eyes toward the newcomer.

"Hello, Perc," he growled. "Didn't see you. Say, I'm so mad my skin
cracks. Just now some measly little shrimp called me up from a public
booth. What ye suppose he wanted, now? Oh, nothin'! Just told me in so
many words for me to pack up my little trunk and sail for Europe and never
come back! That's all! He give me until Sunday, too." McCarthy barked out
a short laugh, and reached for the cigar box, which he held out to Darrow.

Percy shook his head. "What's the occasion?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Just bughouse, I guess."

"So he wants you to go to Europe?"

"Wants me? Orders me! Says I got to." McCarthy laughed. "Lovely thought!"