“A cab, sir?” said Peters, half afraid that he’d be snapped at for asking an unnecessary question, yet not quite certain that a cab was desired. “Yes,” was the absent-minded response, and Peters passed on the word by telephone to the doorman below. Then, satisfactorily turned out, Sir Herbert left his rooms and touched the elevator bell. Once in the car, and seeing the pretty elevator girl, his mood brightened. “Good evening, Daisy,” he said, “give me one kiss for good luck. This is my busy day.” He carelessly put an arm round her, and kissed her lightly on the lips, even as he spoke. The girl was taken by surprise, and anger surged up in her soul. “You coward!” she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and mindful of her elevator gear. “Take shame to yourself, sir, for insulting a defenseless girl!” “Oh, come now, chicken, that didn’t hurt you! I’m only a jollier. Forget it, and I’ll give you a big box of candy.” “I’ll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again——” The dire threat was not pronounced, for just then the car reached the ground floor, and the girl flung the door open. Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without knowledge of his ways herself. But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney’s estimation, born to be waved at. He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked. “Taxi ready?” he said to the obsequious doorman. “Yes, sir,—yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are.” “And here you are,” the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver. “To the Hotel Magnifique,” he said, and his cab rolled away. During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile shifted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk. After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o’clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself. This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning. On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction. At two o’clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor. Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore, full of his story, said: