Having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, Jim Weston proceeded on his way. Continuing north up Broadway as far as Forty-third Street, he crossed Long Acre Square and stopping in front of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the steep stoop. The house was one of the few old-fashioned private residences still left standing in the business section of the city. Some forty or more years ago, when Long Acre was practically a suburb of New York, this particular house was the home of a proud Knickerbocker family. Its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the laughter of richly-attired men and women--the society of New York in ante-bellum days. But in the modern relentless march uptown of commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept away. The house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. And a queer collection of tenants they had secured. A quick-lunch-counter man occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. Up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a Mr. Quiller--foxy Quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage. There was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb. By the time he had reached the top, Jim Weston was out of breath. Halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until he came to an office, the door of which was opened. He entered. In a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. That they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance. The women wore smart frocks, and the men were clean shaven, but there was an obsequious deference in their manner and a worried, expectant expression on their faces that one sees only in dependents anxious to please. In the far corner, near the window, was Mr. Quiller's private office, on the frosted glass door of which was the word "Private." Above the door, and all about the room were large cards bearing such friendly greetings as: "MY TIME'S WORTH MONEY! DON'T WASTE IT." "THIS IS MY BUSY DAY; BE BRIEF." "DON'T COME TILL I SEND FOR YOU--THIS MEANS YOU!" The other decorations consisted of a number of theatrical photographs tacked here and there on the walls and a few old playbills. At a desk near the entrance, a slovenly office boy sat reading a dime novel.