From this day forward every spare moment was spent in the seclusion of this underground apartment. The Mayor let slip his official mantle, and as far as possible leaned upon the city comptroller. He took only thought enough to pocket the fees with a cold, sardonic smile. He gave up his club, declined invitations to progressive euchre; the fall races, and the dog show he passed by. The big ball game he even forgot to attend. His life centered in the cellar. This was pre-eminently satisfactory to Mrs. V. and her ethereal shadow. Bill’s absence furnished opportunity for unending discussions on the Unity of Vibration, which had polarized them as a unit. Absorbed as they were in the contemplation of themselves, they failed to cognize the exact nature of Mr. Vanderhook’s occupation in the cellar. They only dreamed on, happy in the present, careless of the past and hilarious in the hope of soon realizing a still closer relation--after they had satisfied the requirements of the law as made and provided in the Statutes of Illinois. So self-absorbed were they that they gave no attention to the comings and goings of the master of the house. The man in the cellar was practically forgotten. Now and then, however, they would be momentarily diverted by subterranean reports and faint odors of gases. “Well, he’s got to get somewhere to make himself heard,” laughed the “Lonnie Llama” one evening when Imogene shrieked at an unusually loud report. The walls shook with the force of it, while the cruel couple shook with laughter. “He don’t complain of being lonesome any more does he?” added the gentleman. “Oh, no,” giggled Imogene. “He says he is wrapped up in Science now.” “And so are we, my ownest; are not we also wrapped up in Science--the Higher Science?”--and the Gay Gnani encircled his Affinity with his very diaphanous arms. The Lady laughed gaily, and then disengaging herself she daintily lifted her silken dinner gown and, recalling the last matinee in Chicago, she trippingly danced, singing as only Imogene could sing: “O, O, my Hindoo Honey, Honey I love you.” Such had come to be the atmosphere of the drawing room. But what of him in the cellar? What of the husband discarded, and the friend betrayed? He was busy--tremendously BUSY. He did not even close Saturdays at one o’clock. He was busy every daylight hour he could steal. He was busy far into the hours when just men sleep, and bad ones go a burgling.