Of course I’d located the number and looked it over several times. It was on one of the regular red brick fronts which owned windows cleaner than most of its neighbors. Nice, old-fashioned curtains, stiffly starched, showed their white patterns. It seemed a precise and prim abode, not over-populated. During the minutes I watched, men, women and children went in and out of the doors on each side,--practical looking men, who might be mechanics engaged in car repairs at a garage around the corner; in ways which I’ve mentioned, the women proved they were frugal housewives; the play of the children added to the decent domesticity of the street. There was absolutely nothing sinister in sight and nothing and nobody menacing like the dyke-keeper in Klangenberg’s delicatessen. No one went in or out of Number 120; and I imagined it the abode of some aging, female relative of Doris; an aunt possibly, who might have been her guardian in some country town during Doris’s childhood and who now had moved to the city and who probably took support from the proceeds of Janvier’s plates but had nothing more to do with them. When noon came, and Doris had not appeared, I realized that she must be waiting me within; and I went up and rang the bell. An old woman admitted me, a nice-appearing, wrinkled and gray-haired thing. “Come in,” she said to me immediately, before I could ask for anyone. Plainly I had been expected; and she motioned me into the prim, red-plush parlor with an ancient piano and crayon enlargements on the wall; and also faded, plush hangings in the door. These were particularly important furnishings; for it was when I was stepping between them that I was hit on the head; and not by that old woman nor by any infirm or failing person. The hit was wholly vigorous and expert; and right at the base of the back of my head. Of course, I realized all this afterwards; at the time, I knew nothing. I was walking into that prim, red-plush parlor quite strong and happy; I passed the portières and instantaneously I was “out.” I was also down but didn’t know it; I went “out” while still on my feet; but naturally, when I found myself again, I was on the floor. XVII CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO A GAS CALLED KX. A good many persons of both sexes have put into writing the mental confusion usually concomitant to the process of “coming to.” The descriptions which I’ve happened to read were done by good writers, certainly; but the writers don’t impress me now as people who’d been personally hit on the head. At least, they lacked treatment under the hand of a pluperfect, postgraduate performer upon the _medulla oblongata_.