He shook his head. The mask of the polite student of percents had returned; he became formally polite. "Not at all," he answered, adjusting his black tie. "I had rather hoped you would stay to see my daughter." "Another crisis prevents," I said, bowing at the door of my car. But the banker had turned his back. "Where now, sir?" asked my chauffeur. "The old Museum of Natural History." "All cobblestones in those streets, sir," he said as we leaped forward again. This was true. We fairly jounced our way to the old brownstone structure, which sat with such pathetic dignity on the square of discouraged grass, frowning at the surrounding tenements. The sign advertising the waxworks and "Collection of Criminology" still hung at the door of the lower floor. "Tell me," said I to the freckled girl who sold admissions, "is the Man with the Rolling Eye still here?" She put down her embroidery and removed a long end of red silk thread which she had been carrying on the tip of her tongue. "I should certainly say not!" she answered. "He's all wore out. They couldn't repair him any more." "The machine or the man?" "Both," said she. "But they weren't much of an attraction. Of course there wasn't supposed to be any man--only the machine--the automaticon they called it. But it didn't make enough money the last year or two to pay the repairs. The old man that run it was a swell chessplayer. The old man got sick and the machine got broken. Both were about at the end of the rope. So he went away three weeks ago and the machine is stored in the cellar now." "Where did you say the old man lived?" I asked. "I didn't say. But I'll write it down for you. It's a scene-painting loft over by the river." She scribbled on a slip of paper, "J. Lecompte, 5 East India Place." "Thank you," I said. "Um-m. You can't fool me," said she. "You're in the show business!" This was a thrust of her curiosity, but I merely bowed and left her. "Go home as quickly as you can," I whispered to the chauffeur. "Give Mr. Estabrook, my guest, this slip of paper. Tell him to lose no time. Tell him to bring the revolver he will find in the top drawer of my desk! Don't wait for me. I'll walk." The man gazed at me stupidly a moment before he started the machine. "He believes I am crazy," I said to myself as I saw him turn the corner. "Whether or not he is right, the interview will be at least interesting." You will agree with me that these words forecasted accurately. CHAPTER II IN THE PAINTED GARDEN