It must have been thick weather on the river and along the docks, for the deep fog-horns sounded persistently over the city, and the haunted warning of the sirens filled the leaden sky lowering through the white veil descending in flakes that melted where they fell. And, as Lansing strode on, hands deep in his overcoat, more than one mystery was unravelling before his keen eyes that blinked and winked as the clinging snow blotted his vision. Now he began to understand something of the strange effacement of his friend Selwyn; he began to comprehend the curious economies practised, the continued absence from club and coterie, the choice of the sordid lodging whither Boots, one night, seeing him on the street by chance, had shamelessly tracked him--with no excuse for the intrusion save his affection for this man and his secret doubts of the man's ability to take care of himself and his occult affairs. Now he was going there, exactly what to do he did not yet know, but with the vague determination to do something. On the wet pavements and reeking iron overhead structure along Sixth Avenue the street lights glimmered, lending to the filthy avenue under its rusty tunnel a mystery almost picturesque. Into it he turned, swung aboard a car as it shot groaning and clanking around the curve from Fifty-ninth Street, and settled down to brood and ponder and consider until it was time for him to swing off the car into the slimy street once more. Silvery pools of light inlaid the dim expanse of Washington Square. He turned east, then south, then east again, and doubled into a dim street, where old-time houses with toppling dormers crowded huddling together as though in the cowering contact there was safety from the destroyer who must one day come, bringing steel girders and cement to mark their graves with sky-scraping monuments of stone. Into the doorway of one of these houses Lansing turned. When the town was young a Lansing had lived there in pomp and circumstance--his own great-grandfather--and he smiled grimly, amused at the irony of things terrestrial. A slattern at the door halted him: "Nobody ain't let up them stairs without my knowin' why," she mumbled. "I want to see Captain Selwyn," he explained. "Hey?" "Captain Selwyn!" "Hey? I'm a little deef!" screeched the old crone. "Is it Cap'n Selwyn you want?" Above, Selwyn, hearing his name screamed through the shadows of the ancient house, came to the stairwell and looked down into the blackness. "What is it, Mrs. Glodden?" he said sharply; then, catching sight of a dim figure springing up the stairs: "Here! this way. Is it for me?" and as Boots came into the light from his open door: "Oh!" he whispered, deadly pale under the reaction; "I thought it was a telegram. Come in."