he decanter
was a pale yellow fluid which held a beam of light. The house was
completely silent.

Somewhat abashed, he removed his hat and stood irresolute, expecting
some greeting. But nothing happened. On a rack against the wall he saw
a gray uniform coat like that which Mr. Quimbleton had worn in the
Balloon office, and a similar gray cap with the silver monogram. He
glanced at the books. One was The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the other
was a Bible, open at the second chapter of John. He was looking
curiously at the decanter when a voice startled him.

"Dandelion wine!" it said. "Will you have a glass?"

He turned and saw an old gentleman with profuse white hair and beard
tottering into the hall.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Bleak," said the latter. "I was expecting you."

"You are very kind," said the editor. "I fear you have the advantage of
me--I was told that Walt Whitman died in 1892--"

"Nonsense!" wheezed the other with a senile chuckle. He straightened,
ripped off his silver fringes, and appeared as the stalwart Quimbleton
himself.

"Forgive my precautions," he said. "I am surrounded by spies. I have to
be careful. Should some of my enemies learn that old Mr. Monkbones of
Caraway Street is the same as Virgil Quimbleton of the Happiness
Corporation, my life wouldn't be worth--well, a glass of gooseberry
brandy. Speaking of that, Have a little of the dandelion wine." He
pointed to the decanter.

Bleak poured himself a glass, and watched his host carefully resume the
hoary wig and whiskers. They passed into the garden, a quiet green
enclosure surrounded by brick walls and bright with hollyhocks and
other flowers. It was overlooked by a quaint jumble of rear gables,
tall chimneys and white-shuttered dormer windows.

"Do you play croquet?" asked Quimbleton, showing a neat pattern of
white hoops fixed in the shaven turf. "If so, we must have a game after
supper. It's very agreeable as a quiet relaxation."

Mr. Bleak was still trying to get his bearings. To see this robust
creature gravely counterfeiting the posture of extreme old age was
almost too much for his gravity. There was a bizarre absurdity in the
solemn way Quimbleton beamed out from his frosty and fraudulent
shrubbery. Something in the air of the garden, also, seemed to push
Bleak toward laughter. He had that sensation which we have all
experienced--an unaccountable desire to roar with mirth, for no very
definite cause. He bit his lip, and sought r