easoned viands to satisfy my hunger. And all the while
Mr. Colman Hoyt babbled foolishly about the white glories of the queen
of the North; to-morrow he should again be on the way to her dear
embraces. "The Pole, gentlemen; behold, I arrive; c'est moi!"

We passed out into the general room. The card-tables were now full, the
billiard-balls rolled incessantly across the green cloth; from an inner
room came the unmistakable click of a roulette-wheel. Men talked loudly
of their projects and ambitions shortly to be accomplished. An epic
poet was about to publish his magnum opus, the birth of a new star in
the poetical firmament; a speculator had made his great coup--to-morrow
he would have the wheat market cornered.

"My novel!" cried one. "My symphony!" retorted another. A third said no
word, but looked at the miniature of a woman's face that he held in the
hollow of his hand--looked and smiled.

The night wore away; nay, speeded were the better word, for no one felt
any suggestion even of weariness or satiety. Then suddenly the rose
glow grew dimmer; little by little the laughter died away and the
voices were hushed. A few of the bolder spirits set themselves to stem
the receding tide, but their blasphemies quickly trailed away into weak
incoherencies, and again silence conquered all. And darkness fell.

A servant crossed the room and drew aside the heavy velvet curtains
draping the false windows; the pure, colorless light streamed in, but
it disclosed a world in tinge all blue and green and indigo. Our eyes,
so long deprived of the rays emanating from the violet end of the
spectrum, were now affected by them alone; every object was horribly
transformed by the bluish-green bands surrounding and outlining it. A
man brushed carelessly past me; it was Colman Hoyt, and his face was of
a man already dead; his lips moved, but no sound issued from them. He
passed into the model-room connecting on the west with the central
hall; there was the sound of a fall, and Indiman and I followed
quickly. Yet not quickly enough, for across the great globe upon which
were traced the records of his four unsuccessful expeditions lay the
body of Colman Hoyt. He was a heavy man, and he had evidently flung
himself at his full weight upon the sharp, arrow-pointed rod that
served as the axis of this miniature world; it had pierced to his very
heart. The North Pole-at last he had reached it.

"Let us go," said Indiman to me, and we stole quickly