and reseated himself, frowning.

"Mad Maitland, indeed!" he commented.

As for the gentleman so characterized, he emerged, a moment later,
from the portals of the club, still chuckling mildly to himself as
he struggled into a light evening overcoat. His temper, having run
the gamut of boredom, interest, perturbation, mystification, and
plain amusement, was now altogether inconsequential: a dangerous
mood for Maitland. Standing on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street
he thought it over, tapping the sidewalk gently with his cane.
Should he or should he not carry out his intention as declared to
Bannerman, and go to Greenfields that same night? Or should he
keep his belated engagement with Cressy's party?

An errant cabby, cruising aimlessly but hopefully, sighted
Maitland's tall figure and white shirt from a distance, and bore
down upon him with a gallant clatter of hoofs.

"Kebsir?" he demanded breathlessly, pulling in at the corner.

Maitland came out of his reverie and looked up slowly. "Why yes,
thank you," he assented amiably.

"Where to, sir?"

Maitland paused on the forward deck of the craft and faced about,
looking the cabby trustfully in the eye. "I leave it to you," he
replied politely. "Just as you please."