the dead man's acquaintances. And this filled him,
somehow, with the most abject dread and fear. Brassfield seemed to
have been a well-known man; for porters and clerks in New York do not
call the obscure countryman by name. To step out on the street was,
perhaps, to run into the very arms of some one who would penetrate the
disguise. Yet he could not long remain in this room; his very
retirement--any extraordinary behavior (and how did he know
Brassfield's ordinary courses?)--would soon advertise his presence.
Amidon walked to the window and peered down into the street. His eyes
traveled to the opposite windows, and finally in the blind stare of
absent-mindedness became fixed on a gold-and-black sign which he began
stupidly spelling out, over and over. "Madame le Claire," it read,
"Clairvoyant and Occultist." Not an idea was associated in his mind
with the sign until the word "mystery," "mystery," began sounding in
his ears--naturally enough, one would say, in the circumstances. Then
the letters of the word floated before his eyes; and finally he
consciously saw the full sign stretching across two windows: "Madame le
Claire, Clairvoyant and Occultist. All Mysteries Solved."

Florian stared at this sign, until he became conscious of deep
weariness at so long standing on his feet. Then he saw, blossoming,
the multiplying lights of an early winter's dusk--so numbly had the
time slipped by. And in the gruesome close of this dreadful day, the
desperate and perplexed man stole timidly down the stairways--avoiding
the elevator--and across the street to the place of the occultist.

IV

AN ADVENTURE IN BENARES

The silly world shrieks madly after Fact,
Thinking, forsooth, to find therein the Truth;
But we, my love, will leave our brains unracked,
And glean our learning from these dreams of youth:
Should any charge us with a childish act
And bid us track out knowledge like a sleuth,
We'll lightly laugh to scorn the wraiths of History,
And, hand in hand, seek certitude in Mystery.
--_When the Halcyon Broods_.

The house of the occultist was one of a long row, all alike, which
reminds the observer of an exercise in perspective, as one glances down
the stretch of balustraded piazzas. Amidon walked straight across the
street from the hotel, and counted the flights of stairs up to the
fourth floor. There was no elevator. The denizens of the place gave
him a vague impressio