it was a large, swanking envelope with very polite
writing. He straightened up in the chair long enough to pass her in,
and then slumped down again.

Cake found herself in a queer, barnlike place, half room and half
hallway, feebly illumined by a single electric bulb suspended above
the door. Very composedly she looked about her. If Mr. Arthur Noyes
lived in this place, he was one of her own kind and there was no need
for any palpitation on her part. Anyway, she was looking solely for
her chance to become famous, and she brought to this second stage of
her search the same indifference to externals, the same calm,
unfaltering courage as she had to the first.

"Now, then," said a voice briskly. "Say what you want. We have not
advertised for any extra people. At least--not this year."

A short, stout man emerged from the shadows. He was very blond, with
his hair cut snapper, and his pale eyes popped perpetual astonishment.
She returned his look steadily and well. She knew she was born to be
famous, and fame has a certain beauty of dignity utterly lacking in
mere success.

"I am not an extra person," she replied. "I have come to see Mr.
Noyes," and she displayed once more the large square envelope, her
legacy from the lodger, the knife with which she proposed to shuck
from its rough shell that oyster, the world.

The man looked even more astonished, if the thing could have been
accomplished, and regarded her keenly--stared.

"Come this way," he said.

Cake followed him along a narrow passage that turned off to the right,
down five steps, across a narrow entry, up three more steps--although
it seems quite silly, she never in her life forgot the odd number of
those worn steps--and halted before a closed door. On this the fat man
knocked once and opened immediately without waiting.

"Someone I think you'll see," he said, standing between Cake and the
interior. There came to her a murmur over his chunky shoulder.

"She has a letter from----" The fat man dropped his voice and mumbled.
"Positive," he said, aloud, after a pause broken only by the vague
murmur within the room. "I'd know his fist anywhere. Yes." Then he
pushed the door open wide, stood aside, and looked at Cake. "Walk in,"
he said.

She did so. Beautifully. Poems have been written about her walk. Two
kinds.

The room she entered was square, with concrete floor and rough walls.
But Cake did not notice the room for three reasons: The rug on the
floor,