The Worm raised an arresting pipe. “Don't,” he said dryly. “Never do that! Besides, your defense, while fairly plausible, accounts for only about three months of your life.” Slightly crestfallen, Hy read on in silence. Then he turned back and started at the beginning. Finally, looking up and catching the Worm's interested, critical eyes on him, he stuffed the document back into his pocket, lit a new cigarette, got up, found his hat and stick, stood a moment in moody silence, sighed deeply and went out. The telephone rang. As the Worm drew the instrument toward him and lifted the receiver the door opened and Hy came charging back. The voice was feminine. “Is Mr. Lowe there?” it said. “Gimme that phone!” breathed Hy, reaching for it. The Worm swung out of his reach. “No,” he said into the transmitter, “he's gone out. Just a moment ago. Would you like to leave any message?” And dodging behind the desk, he grinned at Hy. That young man was speechless. “Who did you say?” Thus the Worm into the telephone. “Mrs. Bixbee?” He spoke swiftly to Hy. “It's funny. I've heard the voice. But Mrs. Bixbee!” Then into the telephone. “Yes, this is Mr. Bates. Oh, you were Betty Deane? Yes, indeed! Wait a moment. I think he has just come in again. I'll call him.” But at that name Hy bolted. The door slammed after him. The Worm could hear him running along the outer corridor and down the stairs. He had not stopped to ring for the elevator. “No,” said the Worm now unblushingly, “I was mistaken. He isn't here. That was the floor maid.” As he pushed the instrument back on the desk, he sighed and shook his head. “That's it,” he said aloud, with humility. “It's a gift.” CHAPTER XXIII--THE BUZZER |NEW YORK, as much as Paris or Peking, is the city of bizarre contrasts. One such is modestly illustrated in the life of Hy Lowe. Hy hurried on this as on every working morning eastward across Broadway and through Astor Place to the large five-story structure, a block in length, near the heart of the Bowery, that had been known for seventy years as Scripture House. Tract societies clustered within the brownstone walls, publishers of hymn books and testaments, lecture bureaus, church extension groups, temperance and anti-cigarette societies, firms of lady typists, and with these, flocks of shorter-lived concerns whose literature was pious and whose aims were profoundly commercial. Long years before, when men wore beavers and stocks and women wore hoopskirts, the building had symbolized the organized evangelical forces that were to galvanize and remake a corrupt world.