Bartley's library had once been called the most distinctive room in the city. When he had remodeled the house, he had torn away all the partitions to make one huge room. It ran across the entire front of the house, and had one of the largest fireplaces I have ever seen. The walls were covered with French prints—not copies, but the rare originals of the eighteenth century. Boucher, Fragonard, and their contemporaries covered three of the walls, while the fourth was left for the Belgian—Rops—whose devilish suggestiveness leered at one in over sixty etchings. Below the etchings ran the bookcases, filled with the books which Bartley loved; not ordinary books, but the rare things upon crime and science, philosophy and psychology—the cream of a lifetime of collecting. And then came the long rows of thin volumes, with their dark red covers—the most extensive collection in the country, of the rare pamphlets and memoirs of the years before the French Revolution. Bartley was seated by his large rosewood desk, whose surface was covered with books and papers. He even looked cool in his white silk suit, and he smiled when I mentioned the heat. With that he went back to the book he was reading, while I picked up the evening paper and went over to an easy chair. There was nothing of importance in the paper, though the murder trial filled many columns—columns of the usual sob stuff, but with little information. In disgust, I threw the paper aside just as Bartley spoke. “Pelt,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from Carter. He is very eager to have us come up and visit him.” I was rather surprised at this, for I had thought Carter was on the other side of the water. Seeing my astonishment, Bartley continued: “George writes me that his chief has given him the summer to rest in. He is at the old home, and wants us to spend part of the summer with him.” Carter's father had made a fortune out of some so-called cure for rheumatism. It is much to be doubted if it ever cured any one, but it did result in George receiving a large sum of money when his father died. But money meant little to Carter, while adventure promised a great deal more. In some manner, Carter got into the Secret Service, where he surprised those who looked upon him as being only a rich man's son, by becoming the best man his chief had. Though there was at least fifteen years of difference in their ages, Bartley and he were the warmest of friends. I was thinking of this as Bartley's voice interrupted my thoughts. “I have been thinking, Pelt, that there is not the slightest reason in the world for your staying in the city. I can not get away until after I have testified in the trial; and the way it looks now, only the Lord Himself knows when that will be. But it is absurd for you to stay in the city while it is so warm. Why don't you take the small car and the dog and go to Carter's? I will come as soon as I can.”