Before the end of the month, however, when I left the eau-de-Cologne business, a most unpleasant and alarming incident occurred. The terrible thing, long dreaded in a vague kind of way, had overtaken me at last. I was to be convicted of a crime I had not committed. I might even be sent to gaol.... Brodie’s outlandish furnishing of his rooms has been mentioned purposely; they were filled with an assortment of showy trash that could not have deceived a charwoman; fifty dollars would have covered everything. He was proud of his curtains, rugs and faked draperies, however; showed them off with the air of a connoisseur; hinted at their great value. He had insured them, it always pleased him to mention. The _New York Journal_, describing the eviction scene, had referred to his fine apartment “furnished with exotic taste and regardless of cost,” adding this touch of colour which was certainly not my own. Brodie, thus encouraged in print, promptly took out another fire policy in a second company. And one day, while toying with his flagons, he mentioned casually that he was having “me place done up a bit,” new paint, new paper were to be put on, and--might he bring his clothes to my room until this was finished, as his own cupboard space was limited? He brought the suits himself, carrying them one by one concealed inside a folded overcoat upon his arm. He did this always after dusk. No suspicion stirred in me. My own cupboards were, of course, empty. Brodie’s fine wardrobe now filled them. It all seemed natural enough; certainly it roused no doubt or query in me; neither did the party to which I was invited a few days later, which included a “distinguished” member, of course, a famous dress-designer from Europe, with whose publicity campaign in the Press, Brodie had contrived to get his name associated. We were a party of five men, and we met at our host’s rooms before going out to dine, the rooms that had just been done up; and attention, I recall, was drawn particularly to the beauty, rarity and value of his variegated trash. The electric light was shaded, a big coal fire burned in the grate, at a cursory glance the apartment might possibly have produced a favourable impression of expense and richness. But our host did not allow us to linger; there was a hurried cocktail, and we were gone. I remember that I was last but one in the procession down the stairs from this top floor; Brodie, who had held the door open for us to pass, came last. Also I remembered later, that as we reached the next flight, he said he had forgotten something, and dashed upstairs again to fetch it. A moment later he rejoined us in the street, and we all went on to dinner. “It was a kind of house-warming party,” he explained.