I did my best to convince him that I shared his views and his tastes. I took a leaf from Moore’s book, and admitted that I had run through pretty well the entire gamut of sensations with the exception of drugs, and that I was too lazy to go in search of those. Finally, I admitted quite frankly that I had heard of some wonderful tea that he had served at his house and begged him to tell me whether it was really as captivating as it had been called. But Ivanovitch was cautious. He told me that I had had some of that tea the preceding afternoon and that it was merely good tea. So I let the matter drop entirely, and talked about Russia and other general subjects until it was time to take him home. At his door, however, I tried once more. “Well, Monsieur, I have to thank you in turn”—he had expressed himself as pleased with his entertainment—“for a delightful luncheon, and I can only hope that you will give me another opportunity to enjoy your society. You are a man of the world, Monsieur,” I laughed; “and I hope, too, that if you run across something new in this weary round of nights and days, you will let me share it with you!” He bowed, smiling his cynical smile. “Who knows, perhaps I may yet be able to introduce you to a new sensation, my dear Mr. Clayton.” And with that we parted. There had been something about his smile that I did not entirely like. But I did not like the man at all, anyway, and I put it down to the fact of his alien temperament. At all events, if he, too, knew anything about the famous revels of which we were beginning to learn, I had made a fair start to learn more through him. The real event of the day began when I met Larry at nine o’clock. He was at the appointed place promptly on time, and I could see by his slightly increased girth that he had brought the kit of tools with him. I myself was dressed in my oldest clothes and looked as much like a burglar as possible, so that if Vining saw me he would not connect me with Moore or think it more than a coincidence. With nothing more than a nod and a smile, Larry jumped into the car and we proceeded to Vining’s home, parking the car down the street a little way. The house was one of those high, narrow, brown-stone fronts in the Sixties. Originally it had had a basement and steps leading up to the first-floor front door. But, like many of these houses, it had been converted into apartments, the steps had been torn down and the basement entrance was now the front door. The latter was set in, in a little vestibule, the entrance was overshadowed by the steps of the house next door, and forcing an entrance, Larry said, was child’s play if we didn’t get caught. Larry had found out through local stores that Vining lived alone, as a rule, and that his apartment was cared for by a woman who came in by the day, so that once we reached his rooms we were in little danger of detection. But the difficulty was forcing the lock on the front door without attracting attention.