re as if the sobering influence of the Sabbath
had invaded even this exclusive domain of the unholy rich. The uniformed
attendants, having nothing to do, yawned lazily in the deserted halls.
Some even indulged in surreptitious naps in corners, confident that they
would not be disturbed. Callers were so rare that when some one did
enter from the street, he was looked upon with suspicion.

It was shortly after seven o'clock the day following Mrs. Jeffries'
reception when a man came in by the main entrance from Broadway, and
approaching one of the hall boys, inquired for Mr. Robert Underwood.

The boy gave his interlocutor an impudent stare. There was something
about the caller's dress and manner which told him instinctively that he
was not dealing with a visitor whom he must treat respectfully. No one
divines a man's or woman's social status quicker or more unerringly than
a servant. The attendant saw at once that the man did not belong to the
class which paid social visits to tenants in the Astruria. He was rather
seedy-looking, his collar was not immaculate, his boots were thick and
clumsy, his clothes cheap and ill-fitting.

"Is Mr. Underwood in?" he demanded.

"Not home," replied the attendant insolently, after a pause. Like most
hall boys, he took a savage pleasure in saying that the tenants were
out.

The caller looked annoyed.

"He must be in," he said with a frown. "I have an appointment with him."

This was not strictly true, but the bluff had the desired effect.

"Got an appointment! Why didn't you say so at once?"

Reaching lazily over the telephone switchboard, and without rising from
his seat, he asked surlily:

"What's the name?"

"Mr. Bennington."

The boy took the transmitter and spoke into it:

"A party called to see Mr. Underwood."

There was a brief pause, as if the person upstairs was in doubt whether
to admit that he was home or not. Then came the answer. The boy looked
up.

"He says you should go up. Apartment 165. Take the elevator."

* * * * *

In his luxuriously appointed rooms on the fourteenth floor, Robert
Underwood sat before the fire puffing nervously at a strong cigar. All
around him was a litter of _objets d'art_, such as would have filled the
heart of any connoisseur with joy. Oil paintings in heavy gilt frames,
of every period and school, Rembrandts, Cuyps, Ruysdaels, Reynoldses,
Corots, Henners, some on easels, some resting on the floor