Shortly after eight he entered the Cable home. He had gone to Chicago Avenue beforehand to send a telegram East. From the corner of Clark Street, he walked across town toward the lake, facing the bitter gale with poor grace. In Washington Place he passed two men going from their cab into the Union Club. He did not look at them nor did he see that they turned and stared after him as he buffeted his way across Dearborn Avenue. One of the men was Bobby Rigby; the other, Denis Harbert of New York. "It's the same Bansemer," said Harbert as they entered the club. "I'd know him in a million." At the Cables' a servant, on opening the door, announced that Mr. Cable was not at home. "Is Mrs. Cable at home?" asked Mr. Bansemer, making no effort to find his cardcase. "Yes, sir," responded the servant after a moment's hesitation. Bansemer passed through the vestibule. "Say Mr. Bansemer, if you please." He removed his coat and was standing comfortably in front of the blazing logs in the library when she came down. "I thought the night was too dreadful for anyone to venture out unless--" she was saying as she gave him her hand. "A night indoors and alone is a thousandfold more dreadful than one outdoors in quest of good company," interrupted Bansemer. He drew up chairs in front of the fireplace and stood by waiting for her to be seated. "I had forgotten that Mr. Cable was to attend a banquet at the Auditorium," she explained nervously, confident, however, that he felt she had not forgotten. "To be sure," he said. "This is the night of the banquet. I was not invited." "I tried to telephone to ask you to come to-morrow night. The storm has played havoc with the wires. It is impossible to get connection with anyone." A servant appeared in the doorway. "You are wanted at the telephone, Mrs. Cable, Shall I say you will come?" Flushing to the roots of her hair, the mistress of the house excused herself and left the room. Bansemer leaned back in his chair and smiled. She returned a few minutes later with a fluttering apology. "What a terrible night it must be for those poor linemen," she said. "I remember what it meant to be a railroad lineman in the West years ago. The blizzards out there are a great deal more severe than those we have here, Mr. Bansemer. Just think of the poor fellows who are repairing the lines to-night. Doesn't it seem heartless?" "It does, indeed. And yet, I daresay you've been scolding them bitterly all evening. One seldom thinks it worth while to be merciful when the telephone refuses to obey. It's only a true philanthropist who can forgive the telephone. However, I am grateful to the blizzard and happy. Fair weather would have deprived me of pleasure." "I am sorry Mr. Cable is not at home," she said quickly. "I doubt if I shall miss him greatly," said he. "He expects to leave early--he isn't well," she hastened to say. "Don't you want to smoke?"