Now, I detest being in the mob, and I was about to back my way out of the crowd and seek another route, even if a roundabout one. But just then the blockade was partially raised, an opening presented itself immediately in front of me, and I was forced forward willy-nilly. Arrived at the other side of the street, I drew out of the press as quickly as possible, and it was then that I discovered Mr. Indiman's carte de visite tightly clutched in my left hand. Impossible to conjecture how it had come there, and my own part in the transaction had been purely involuntary; the muscles of the palm had closed unconsciously upon the object presented to it, just as does a baby's. "Mr. Esper Indiman--and who the deuce may he be?" The club dining-room was full, but Jeckley hailed me and offered me a seat at his table. I loathe Jeckley, and so I explained politely that I was waiting for a friend, and should not dine until later. "Well, then, have a cocktail while I am finishing my coffee," persisted the beast, and I was obliged to comply. "I had to feed rather earlier than usual," explained Jeckley. "Yes," I said, not caring in the least about Mr. Jeckley's hours for meals. "You see I'm doing the opening at the Globe to-night, and I must get my Wall Street copy to the office before the theatre. And what do you think of that by way of an extra assignment?" He took a card from his pocket-book and tossed it over. It was another one of Mr. Esper Indiman's calling-cards, and scrawled in pencil, "Call at 4020 Madison Avenue at eight o'clock this evening." Jeckley was lighting his cigar, and so did not observe my start of surprise. Have I said that Jeckley was a newspaper man? One of the new school of journalism, a creature who would stick at nothing in the manufacture of a sensation. The Scare-Head is his god, and he holds nothing else sacred in heaven and earth. He would sacrifice--but perhaps I'm unjust to Jeckley; maybe it's only his bounce and flourish that I detest. Furthermore, I'm a little afraid of him; I don't want to be written up. "Esper Indiman," I read aloud. "Don't know him." "Ever heard the name?" asked Jeckley. I temporized. "It's unfamiliar, certainly." Jeckley looked gloomy. "Nobody seems to know him," he said. "And the name isn't to be found in the directory, telephone-book, or social register." Wonderful fellows, these newspaper men; I never should have thought of going for Mr. Indiman like that. "But why and wherefore?" I asked, cautiously. "A mystery, my son. The card was shoved into my hand not half an hour ago." "Where?" "At Twenty-third and Fourth. There were a lot of people around, and I haven't the most distant notion of the guilty party." "What does it mean?" Jeckley shook his head. "What will you do about it?" "I will make the call, of course." "Of course!"