He dropped several tinkly objects on my desk, rose, and, without another word, was gone. I picked up the items. They were subway tokens. I hurried to the window and glanced out. I could see the little man hurrying down the street, his head bobbing up and down like a swimmer in the ocean. Then, my mind in a turmoil, I turned out the light and went to bed. Fortunately, regardless of the press of circumstances, I have never had difficulty in falling asleep and tonight was no exception. * * * * * At seven-thirty the next morning I arose, dressed, and prepared my breakfast. I thought of the events of the preceding evening. Had it not been for the bloodied towel with which I had washed the little man's wounds, I might have dismissed the entire incident as a dream. I continued to think about it while walking to the subway. I berated myself for taking the story seriously even for a moment, as I dropped a token into the turnstile and pressed forward. I gasped in sudden pain as the turnstile, still locked, pushed into my midriff. I glanced at the token in the slot. It had not dropped. I pressed it down. It refused to budge. I tried several other tokens, all with the same result. By this time half a dozen people had gathered behind me, making angry remarks. Flustered, I backed away, bought a token from the cashier, and rode to the University. Then it was I recalled that I had tried to use the tokens my strange visitor had placed on my desk before parting from me, and which I had, without thinking, picked up in the morning. All that day I pondered over the tokens and the odd tale of Mr. Rumplestein-O'Grady. I could still give it no credence, but I _was_ disturbed. On my way home, that evening, as is my wont, I bought a newspaper and began reading it casually. Just before reaching my station, I came across a small item on one of the inside pages. It stated that a small, bearded man, wearing a checkered suit, had been found in the river that morning, stabbed. There were no identification papers on him, only a pocket full of subway tokens which, police believed, had been used to weight down the body. "Good heavens!" I said aloud. Several passengers raised their eyebrows. I flushed, hurried out of the train and to my apartment where I fell into my chair, shocked and shaking. No doubt the body was that of Rumplestein. The poor little man! What did this mean? Could his story conceivably have been true? The knock on my door startled me. "Professor, are you home?" It was my landlady. When I opened the door she handed me an envelope with my name written on it in small, neat letters. "A little fellow with a beard gave it to me early this morning, after you'd gone. He said to be sure you got it. Then he ran away." She shook her head in obvious disapproval of such actions. After she left I tore open the envelope and read the contents.