n of being engaged in the fine arts. A glimpse of
an interior hung with Navajo blankets, Pueblo pottery, Dakota beadwork,
and barbaric arms; the sound of a soprano practising Marchesi
exercises; an easel seen through an open door and flanked by a Grand
Rapids folding-bed with a plaster bust atop; and a pervasive scent of
cigarettes, accounted for, and may or may not have justified, the
impression. On the fourth floor the scent shaded off toward
sandalwood, the sounds toward silence, Bohemia toward Benares. He
walked in twilight, on inch-deep nap, to a door on which glowed in
soft, purple, self-emitted radiance, the words:

MADAME Le CLAIRE
ENTER

The invitation was plain, and he opened the door. As he did so, the
deep, mellow note of a gong filled the place with a gentle alarum. It
was sound with noise eliminated, and matched, to the ear, the velvet of
the carpet.

The room into which he looked was dark, save for light reflected from a
marble ball set in a high recess in the ceiling. None of the lamps,
whose rays illuminated the ball, could be seen, and the white globe
itself was hung so high in the recess that none of its direct rays
reached the corners of the apartment. A Persian rug lay in the center,
and took the fullest light. There were no sharp edges of shadow, but
instead there was a softly graduated penumbra, deepening into murk.
Straight across was a doorway with a portiere, beyond was another, and
still farther, a third, all made visible in silhouette by the light in
a fourth room, seen as at the end of a tunnel.

Across this gossamer-barred arch of light, a black figure was
projected, and swelled as it neared in silent approach. It came
through the last portiere, on into the circle of light, and stood, a
turbaned negro, bowing low toward the visitor.

"Madame le Claire," said Amidon feebly, "may I speak with her?"

There was no reply, unless a respectful scrutiny might be taken for
one. Then the dumb Sudanese, carrying with him the atmosphere of a
Bedouin tent, disappeared, lingered, reappeared, and beckoned Amidon to
follow. As they passed the first portiere, that mellow and gentle
gong-note welled softly again from some remote distance. At the second
archway, it sounded nearer, if not louder. At the third, as Amidon
stepped into the lighted room, it filled the air with a golden
vibrancy. It was as if invisible ministers had gone before to announce
him.

Amidon took on