“Yessir.” The porter touched his cap respectfully; at one glance he had appraised the traveler’s well-groomed appearance, and his palm itched for the anticipated tip. “But you’d better hurry, suh; I kain’t hol’ a cab long, suh, an’ dey’s mighty scarce at dis time ob de mawnin,’ suh.” “All right.” The traveler quickened his steps, corralled a half awake baggage clerk, gave his instructions, and sought the southern entrance of the station without further waste of time. “Heah’s yo’ cab, suh,” called the porter. The information was somewhat superfluous, for only one taxi stood at the curb, the rest having been requisitioned by other passengers. “Thank yo’, suh,” added the porter, as his lingers closed over a half dollar; his intuition had not been wrong. “Where to, suh?” His question remained unanswered, for the traveler shouldered him aside, and gave his directions to the chauffeur in so low a tone that they were not overheard, then entered the cab and settled himself comfortably on the roomy seat. Half dozing he took no notice of the taxi’s progress up Massachusetts Avenue to Sheridan Circle, and was only aroused from his nap by the abrupt stopping of the vehicle before a white marble residence of imposing size. He started to leave the taxi, then drew back. “Lord!” he grumbled, inspecting the drawn blinds and closed vestibule door. “I forgot I’m still south of Mason and Dixon’s line; everybody’s asleep.” “Want to be driven around a bit, sir?” questioned the chauffeur. “I do not,” dryly, glancing askance at the register. He pulled out his watch and scanned the dial. “Six-fifteen. Any Turkish Baths near here?” “The Riggs’ Bath is the best, sir; get you there in a few minutes.” “Very well,” and with a resigned sigh, the traveler leaned back and studied his surroundings with interest as the taxi passed down the quiet thoroughfares. On approaching the business section of the city there were more signs of life, and in crossing a street the taxi was held up by a number of heavy drays. In the pause that followed the traveler casually inspected the side of a red brick basement house whose entrance fronted on the other street. The windows of what appeared to be a library on the second floor were open, letting in the balmy air which accompanies Indian Summer in the Capital City, and the traveler saw a colored servant dusting the room. His feather duster, wielded with unusual vigor, struck against some papers lying on a desk by the window, and the topmost sheet sailed out. The wind carried it to the gutter where a small stream of water from the recently flushed street swept it along to the sewer opening, where it poised for a moment on the brink, then disappeared into the dark depths beneath. The servant, leaning half out of the window, breathlessly watched the paper’s progress with eyes and mouth wide open, and his ludicrously agonized expression drew a faint chuckle from the traveler as his taxi started down the street.