You see, there is no obvious detail lacking. Yes; there was an apartment. “Flat” it becomes under their kind of tenancy, situated on the windiest bend of Riverside Drive and minutely true to type from the pale-blue and brocade Verni Martin parlor of talking-machine, mechanical piano, and cellarette built to simulate a music cabinet, to the pink-brocaded bedroom with a _chaise longue_ piled high with a small mountain of lace pillowettes that were liberally interlarded with paper-bound novels, and a spacious, white-marble adjoining bathroom with a sunken tub, rubber-sheeted shower, white-enamel weighing scales and over-loaded medicine-chest of cosmetic array in frosted bottles, sleeping-, headache-, sedative powders, _et al._ There were also a negro maid, two Pomeranian dogs, and last, but by no means least, a private telephone enclosed in a hall closet and lighted by an electric bulb that turned on automatically to the opening of the door. There was nothing sinister about Wheeler. He was a rather fair exponent of that amazing genus known as “typical New Yorker,” a roll of money in his pocket, and a roll of fat at the back of his neck. He went in for light checked suits, wore a platinum-and-Oriental-pearl chain across his waistcoat, and slept at a Turkish bath once a week; was once named in a large corporation scandal, escaping indictment only after violent and expensive skirmishes, could be either savage or familiar with waiters, wore highly manicured nails, which he regarded frequently in public, white-silk socks only, and maintained, on a twenty-thousand-a-year scale in the decorous suburb of Rosencranz, a decorous wife and three children, and, like all men of his code, his ethics were strictly double-decked. He would not permit his nineteen-year-old daughter Marion so much as a shopping-tour to the city without the chaperonage of her mother or a friend, forbade in his wife, a comely enough woman with a white unmarcelled coiffure and upper arms a bit baggy with withering flesh, even the slightest of shirt-waist V’s unless filled in with net, and kept up, at an expense of no less than fifteen thousand a year--thirty the war-year that tractors jumped into the war-industry class--the very high-priced, -tempered, -handled, and -stepping Hester of wild-gazelle charm. Not that Hester stepped much. There were a long underslung roadster and a great tan limousine with yellow-silk curtains at the call of her private telephone. The Wheeler family used, not without complaint, a large open car of very early vintage, which in winter was shut in with flapping curtains with isinglass peepers, and leaked cold air badly.