ee you
outside. I believe he wants to murder you. Come along. You won't see
him, so there's nothing to be frightened about."

Kerner looked anxious.

"Why," said he, "I had no idea one absinthe would do that. You'd
better stick to Wuerzburger. I'll walk home with you."

I led him to Jesse Holmes's.

"Rudolf," said the Fool-Killer, "I'll give in. Bring her up to the
house. Give me your hand, boy."

"Good for you, dad," said Kerner, shaking hands with the old man.
"You'll never regret it after you know her."

"So, you did see him when he was talking to you at the table?" I
asked Kerner.

"We hadn't spoken to each other in a year," said Kerner. "It's all
right now."

I walked away.

"Where are you going?" called Kerner.

"I am going to look for Jesse Holmes," I answered, with dignity and
reserve.

XIX

TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA

There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the
summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are
finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and
deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences
of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide
dreamily upward in its aerial elevators, attended by guides in brass
buttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained.
There is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout
better than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn
Old Point Comfort--"by Gad, sah!"--green with envy, and Maine venison
that would melt the official heart of a game warden.

A few have found out this oasis in the July desert of Manhattan.
During that month you will see the hotel's reduced array of guests
scattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty
dining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of
unoccupied tables, silently congratulatory.

Superfluous, watchful, pneumatically moving waiters hover near,
supplying every want before it is expressed. The temperature
is perpetual April. The ceiling is painted in water colors to
counterfeit a summer sky across which delicate clouds drift and do
not vanish as those of nature do to our regret.

The pleasing, distant roar of Broadway is transformed in the
imagination of the happy guests to the noise of a waterfall filling
the woods with its restful sound. At every strange footstep the
guests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered
a