n his
book she was much too considerate to disturb him, and between
phonographic noise and rheumatic reminiscence, he chose the former as
being escapable.

The good woman hitched her chair over to the machine. Martin writhed
in spirit. It was not that he was insensible to harmony, even though
canned. He was quite receptive while a booming basso rang the bell in
the lighthouse, dingdong. He was even stoical when the sextette brayed
forth the sorrows of Lucia. But the while a dread clutched him.

Mrs. Meagher had a favorite record. She played it regularly, and wept
cheerfully at each performance. The piece was anathema to Martin.

He watched the old lady out of the corners of his eyes. She searched
her record case and arose triumphant. The well-hated, jangling prelude
filled the room. Martin dropped his book and accomplished a swift and
silent exit.

In the hallway, the manicure lady bobbed her suspiciously yellow head
and smiled provocatively. Martin fled to the cloak-rack near the door.
Hurriedly he donned top-coat and hat. Until he finally closed the
front door behind him, a tinny wail poured out of the little parlor and
assailed his ears, a reedy soprano declaiming passionately that she had
raised no son of hers to the profession of arms.

Martin sighed with profound relief as he slammed that door. He thus
shut behind him such disagreeable facts as favorite ballads and
peroxide blondes. It was like shunting a burden off his shoulders.

He stood a moment on the stoop, under the area light, drawing on his
gloves and regarding the night. A night of bright stars, but no moon.
A sharp, windy night, he shivered even beneath his overcoat, but the
air tasted good and fresh. The darkness charitably covered the
respectable ugliness of the neighborhood. Under the twinkling
street-lamps the commonplace street assumed a foreign and even romantic
air.

Martin's spirits mounted. Was he not setting forth on an errand of
mystery? Why, something might happen to a fellow on such a night!

Something did happen, and at once, though Martin attached no importance
to the event at the time. Standing there under the area light, Martin
drew forth the envelope that was the occasion of his errand, to assure
himself by evidence of eyesight that it was still in existence. He
thrust it into the inside pocket of his overcoat, as being a safe and
handy receptacle. As he did so, a suppressed sneeze made him aware he
was