it along. I'd like to know more about
Weintraub's drug store, too. I didn't fancy the map of Herr Weintraub,
not at all. To tell the truth, I had no idea old man Carlyle would get
mixed up in anything as interesting as this."

He found a romantic exhilaration in packing a handbag. Pyjamas,
hairbrushes, toothbrush, toothpaste--("What an ad it would be for the
Chinese Paste people," he thought, "if they knew I was taking a tube of
their stuff on this adventure!")--his .22 revolver, a small green box
of cartridges of the size commonly used for squirrel-shooting, a volume
of O. Henry, a safety razor and adjuncts, a pad of writing paper. . . .
At least six nationally advertised articles, he said to himself,
enumerating his kit. He locked his bag, dressed, and went downstairs
for lunch. After lunch he lay down for a rest, as his head was still
very painful. But he was not able to sleep. The thought of Titania
Chapman's blue eyes and gallant little figure came between him and
slumber. He could not shake off the conviction that some peril was
hanging over her. Again and again he looked at his watch, rebuking the
lagging dusk. At half-past four he set off for the subway. Half-way
down Thirty-third Street a thought struck him. He returned to his
room, got out a pair of opera glasses from his trunk, and put them in
his bag.

It was blue twilight when he reached Gissing Street. The block between
Wordsworth Avenue and Hazlitt Street is peculiar in that on one
side--the side where the Haunted Bookshop stands--the old brownstone
dwellings have mostly been replaced by small shops of a bright, lively
character. At the Wordsworth Avenue corner, where the L swings round
in a lofty roaring curve, stands Weintraub's drug store; below it, on
the western side, a succession of shining windows beacon through the
evening. Delicatessen shops with their appetizing medley of cooked and
pickled meats, dried fruits, cheeses, and bright coloured jars of
preserves; small modistes with generously contoured wax busts of
coiffured ladies; lunch rooms with the day's menu typed and pasted on
the outer pane; a French rotisserie where chickens turn hissing on the
spits before a tall oven of rosy coals; florists, tobacconists,
fruit-dealers, and a Greek candy-shop with a long soda fountain shining
with onyx marble and coloured glass lamps and nickel tanks of hot
chocolate; a stationery shop, now stuffed for the holiday trade with
Christmas ca