Many are the motives that send men into adventurous situations, but there is at least one among them that is compelling--hunger. I have said that I had gone to the club for dinner; I did not say that I got it. To be honest, I had hoped for an invitation--charity, if you insist upon it. But I had been unfortunate. None of my particular friends had chanced to be around, and Jeckley's cocktail had been the only hospitality proffered me. You remember that my pocket had been picked yesterday morning, and since then--well, I had eaten nothing. I might have signed the dinner check, you say. Quite true, but I shall probably be as penniless on the first of the month as I am to-day, and then what? Too much like helping one's self from a friend's pocket. So it was just a blind, primeval impulse that urged me on. This Mr. Indiman had chosen to fish in muddy waters, and his rashness but matched my necessity. A host must expect to entertain his guests. I walked up the steps and rang the bell. Instantly the door opened, and a most respectable looking serving-man confronted me. "Mr. Indiman will see you presently," he said, before I had a chance to get out a word. "This way, sir." The house was of the modern American basement type, and I was ushered into a small reception-room on the right of the entrance hall. "Will you have the Post, sir? Or any of the illustrated papers? Just as you please, sir; thank you." The man withdrew, and I sat looking listlessly about me, for the room, while handsomely furnished, had an appearance entirely commonplace. Five and ten minutes passed, and I began to grow impatient. I remembered that Jeckley's appointment had been for eight o'clock, and for obvious considerations I did not wish that he should find me waiting here. It was eight o'clock now, and I would abide Mr. Indiman's lordly pleasure no longer. I rose to go; the electric bell sounded. I could hear Jeckley's high-pitched voice distinctly; he seemed to be put out about something; he spoke impatiently, even angrily. "But this is 4020 Madison Avenue, isn't it? Mr. Indiman--I was asked to call--Mr. Jeckley, of the Planet." "Must be some mistake, sir," came the answer. "This is No. 4020, but there's no Mr. Inkerman--" "Indiman, not Inkerman--Mr. Esper Indiman. Look at the card." "Never heard the name, sir." "What! Well, then, who does live here?" "Mr. Snell, sir. Mr. Ambrose Johnson Snell. But he's at dinner, and I couldn't disturb him." "Humph!" I fancy that Jeckley swore under his breath as he turned to go. Then the outer door was closed upon him.