“You ought not swear,” I remarked, gravely; and then, “I must explain. I got pounded by that mob; I was knocked quite silly, and this gentleman found me, and healed me in a wonderful way.” “Oh!” said the critic, with genuine interest. “Mind cure, hey? What line?” I was about to reply, but Carpenter, it appeared, was able to take care of himself. “The line of love,” he answered, gently. “See here, Rosythe,” I broke in, “I can't stand on the street. I'm beginning to feel seedy again. I think I'll have a taxi.” “No,” said the critic. “Come with me. I'm on the way to pick up the missus. Right around the corner--a fine place to rest.” And without further ado he took me by the arm and led me along. He was a good-hearted chap inside; his rowdyisms were just the weapons of his profession. We went into an office building, and entered an elevator. I did not know the building, or the offices we came to. Rosythe pushed open a door, and I saw before me a spacious parlor, with birds of paradise of the female sex lounging in upholstered chairs. I was led to a vast plush sofa, and sank into it with a sigh of relief. The stranger stood beside me, and put his hand on my head once more. It was truly a miracle, how the whirling and roaring ceased, and peace came back to me; it must have shown in my face, for the moving picture critic of the Western City “Times” stood watching me with a quizzical smile playing over his face. I could read his thoughts, as well as if he had uttered them: “Regular Svengali stuff, by God!” VIII I was so comfortable there, I did not care what happened. I closed my eyes for a while; then I opened them and gazed lazily about the place. I noted that all the birds of paradise were watching Carpenter. With one accord their heads had turned, and their eyes were riveted upon him. I found myself thinking. “This man will make a hit with the ladies!” Like the swamis, with their soft brown skins, and their large, dark, cow-like eyes! There had been silence in the place. But suddenly we all heard a moan; I felt Carpenter start, and his hand left my head. A dozen doors gave into this big parlor--all of them closed. We perceived that the sound came through the door nearest to us. “What is it?” I asked, of Rosythe. “God knows,” said he; “you never can tell, in this place of torment.” I was about to ask, “What sort of place is it?” But the moan came again, louder, more long drawn out: “O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” It ended in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst. Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face. Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!