ad been carrying on the tip of her tongue.

"I should certainly say not!" she answered. "He's all wore out. They
couldn't repair him any more."

"The machine or the man?"

"Both," said she. "But they weren't much of an attraction. Of course
there wasn't supposed to be any man--only the machine--the automaticon
they called it. But it didn't make enough money the last year or two to
pay the repairs. The old man that run it was a swell chessplayer. The
old man got sick and the machine got broken. Both were about at the end
of the rope. So he went away three weeks ago and the machine is stored
in the cellar now."

"Where did you say the old man lived?" I asked.

"I didn't say. But I'll write it down for you. It's a scene-painting
loft over by the river."

She scribbled on a slip of paper, "J. Lecompte, 5 East India Place."

"Thank you," I said.

"Um-m. You can't fool me," said she. "You're in the show business!"

This was a thrust of her curiosity, but I merely bowed and left her.

"Go home as quickly as you can," I whispered to the chauffeur. "Give Mr.
Estabrook, my guest, this slip of paper. Tell him to lose no time. Tell
him to bring the revolver he will find in the top drawer of my desk!
Don't wait for me. I'll walk."

The man gazed at me stupidly a moment before he started the machine.

"He believes I am crazy," I said to myself as I saw him turn the corner.
"Whether or not he is right, the interview will be at least
interesting."

You will agree with me that these words forecasted accurately.

CHAPTER II

IN THE PAINTED GARDEN

East India Place is not a well-known thoroughfare. In fact, it is a
court, hidden between truck stables and concealed also by the boxes and
bales of commission merchants. Even on a sunshiny day the dank bottom of
this court is dark and smells as if it were under rather than on the
earth. A warehouse occupies one side, the other presents several
doorways, which might once have been the entrances to sailors' lodgings,
but which now are plastered with the rude signs of junk dealers. The
numbers on these houses were all even--2-4-8-10--which left me the
conclusion that Number 5 must be the warehouse and that the
scene-painting loft must be on the top floor of the grimy building.
Indeed, I could see that a skylight had been superimposed on the roof
and my eye caught the sign at the entrance, "The Mohave Scenic Studios