I bored the poor dear. I always had, so why not now? She never flicked a stir in me. Not that she tried; she didn’t. That was it. “Well, old Steve, we’ll struggle through with the meal somehow!” Such was the sensation underlying the ennui; so, naturally, she made it mutual with me. Thank God, she didn’t try to mix salad dressing at the table; so I kept my memory clear. That night, when I returned to the hotel, I had a wire filed at Buffalo; three words, no signature: “Seediness yonder thus.” You may suppose I had my Webster handy, and, counting my words up and down, made out “See you Thursday.” That was to-morrow; so I had to figure out, during the night, what I was to say. You see, I had to bring her those plates and give them to her; but she had to give me a chance to argue her out of using them. Lying in bed, many a good way of putting my point of view came to me. I got up several times and jotted them down; some I just talked over with myself. I made rather a night of it; never was more earnest over anything in my life. I looked to my talk with that girl as a sort of turning point in her life, and for me, if I could simply make her see matters straight. I was crazy over her; you’ve gathered that; and trusted her, too, or would trust her with anything but a counterfeit steel plate which her father had engraved. I figured I could make it so I could trust her with that, too. About mid-morning, I got another wire; from Jersey City this: “Seven three chess omnivorus noose.” No signature again; but the system, which Doris taught me in that vestibule, gave me the place and the time. Up five from seven made twelve; down three from three, zero. Up five from chess, first syllable “cher” down three from omnivorous, “on”; up one from noose, “noon.” The telegram: “120 Cheron (Street) Noon.” Cheron proved to be one of those streets, turned at several angles, down by Brooklyn Bridge. I rehearsed all my talk, went to the vault and withdrew that pair of plates. I decided to make this meeting on foot, not in taxi, so I took the subway from Grand Central to the Bridge and emerged in that intriguing maze which radiates under the ramp of that old roadway suspended above East River. Cheron Street showed itself on a corner full fifteen minutes before noon. It was a sunny bit of city that clear, winter day; it was one of those houses-and-stores streets with red-brick fronts, tall narrow windows and iron stairs and railings. Children romped about; hucksters were making sales to sets of the wisest buyers I ever saw. Price quotations floated to me and I wondered how they could work so close to cost. I was trying to make the time pass more swiftly by turning attention to such trifles while I waited. For I would not call at No. 120 till noon.