After a time the crowd grew thinner. At length the shade of Chisholm noted that he was virtually alone and treading a narrow path that led upward over a shadowy hill. There was no one ahead of him or alongside, but following him at a distance was a considerable multitude of other shades of his own kind. He supposed that shortly after his own unfortunate encounter with the thugs a catastrophe of some sort had developed locally. He could not resist the malicious half hope that it might have been a theater fire. Somehow it irked him that his latest wife should still be alive and fattening on his property while he was tramping these gray wilds. Nor would it have upset him to know that McKittrick had been caught in the same disaster. McKittrick, in his estimation, was a pompous ass whom he would have shown up if he could have lived just a little longer. As far as that went, he could also have viewed with equanimity the decease of the girl that was brought along for Lonigan. He hadn't forgotten the smart of her recent rebuff of him, the little cat! With such thoughts in mind, he topped the rise and saw a wall with a gate in it before him. The gate was open, so he went on in. He halfway expected to be stopped, or at least greeted by an angel, but things were just the same inside the gate as out--except that there was a voice. The voice cried out in the manner of a train announcer, deep and booming. "The prototype of Jerome Chester Chisholm!" Just that. That was all. Then a demon materialized directly in front of the shade of Chisholm. "This way, Jerome," he said very politely. He was not bad-looking--for a demon--though he was unmistakably one, having the expected stock properties: a reddish, glistening skin, stubby horns, and shiny jet-black eyes. "'J.C.' is what people call me," corrected Chisholm. He had never dealt with a demon before, but since the demon appeared to be friendly he thought he might as well respond with a gesture of his own. "Better stick to Jerome," advised the demon. "I'll admit it's not pretty, but it's safe. When you start being known by what people _call_ you--well!" Mr. Chisholm sniffed. The demon's words had the faint odor of a dirty crack. He was beginning not to like the demon. Also the import of the unseen aërial announcement was puzzling him. What did it mean by calling him the "prototype" of himself? It didn't make sense. * * * * * The demon was skittering along ahead, paying very little attention to Chisholm, who was following along meekly enough. Presently a large building loomed ahead. As they approached Chisholm could see that it was an auditorium of some kind. He could also see that the mob of shades were close behind and that they had no guiding demon with them. Evidently they were following blindly in his own tracks.