t the office.

It was remarked by faithful readers of the Balloon that the next day's
cartoon was one of the least successful in the history of that
brilliant newspaper.

CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE ON CARAWAY STREET

After telephoning to his wife that he would not be home for supper,
Bleak set out for Caraway Street. He was in that exuberant mood
discernible in commuters unexpectedly spending an evening in town.
Instead of hurrying out to the suburbs on the 6:17 train, to mow the
lawn and admire the fireflies, here he was watching the more dazzling
fireflies of the city--the electric signs which were already bulbed
wanly against the rich orange of the falling sun. He puffed his pipe
lustily and with a jaunty condescension watched the crowds thronging
the drugstores for their dram of ice-cream soda. In his bosom the
secret julep tingled radiantly. At that hour of the evening the shining
bustle of the central streets was drawing the life of the city to
itself. In the residential by-ways through which his route took him the
pavements were nearly deserted. A delicious sense of extravagant
adventure possessed him. As a newspaper man, he did not feel at all
sure that he was on the threshold of a printable "story"; but as a
connoisseur of juleps he felt that very possibly he was on the
threshold of another drink. Passing a line of billboards, he noticed a
brightly colored poster advertising a brand of collars. In sheer
light-heartedness he drew a soft pencil from his waistcoat and adorned
the comely young man on the collar poster with a heavy mustache.

Caraway Street, with which he had not previously been familiar, proved
to be a quaint little channel of old brick houses, leading into the
bonfire of the summer sunset. There was nothing to distinguish number
1316 from its neighbors. He rang the bell, and there ensued a rapid
clicking in the lock, indicating that the latch had been released by
some one within. He pushed the door open, and entered.

He had a curious sensation of having stepped into an old Flemish
painting. The hall in which he stood was cool and rather dark, though a
bright refraction of light tossed from some upper window upon a tall
mirror filled the shadow with broken spangles. Through an open doorway
at the rear was the green glimmer of a garden. In front of him was a
mahogany sideboard. On its polished top lay two books, a box of cigars,
and a cut glass decanter surrounded by several glasses. In t