Of course he took the Twentieth Century Limited to New York. It was more expensive, but it was quicker; and what did a few dollars matter, now that he was the husband of such an earner? He had unwittingly hitched his wagon to a star, and now he would take a ride through heaven. He wrote a poem or two to that effect, and the train-wheels inspired his prosody. He dreamed of an ideal life in which he should loll upon a sofa of ease, thrumming his lyre, while his wife devoted herself to her career outside. Where would Horace and Virgil have been if they had not had their expenses paid by old Mr. Maecenas? Since Mrs. Gilfoyle could afford to be a patroness, let her patronage begin at home. Her reward would be beyond price, for Gilfoyle decided to perpetuate her fame in powerful rhyme far outlasting the celluloid in which she was writing her name now. Celluloid is perishable indeed, and very inflammable. Gilfoyle did not know that the Hyperfilm studio had burned to the ground before he saw Kedzie's picture in Chicago. But he blithely left that city to its fate and sped eastward. CHAPTER XXVII Gilfoyle reached New York on the Twentieth Century. It was an hour late, and so the railroad company paid him a dollar. He wished it had been later. In his present plight time was anything but money to him. It took him some time to find the Hyperfilm Company's temporary studio. He learned of the fire, and his hope wavered. When he reached the studio Kedzie was not there. The news of her resignation had percolated even to the doorman, who rarely knew anything from inside or outside the studio--an excellent non-conductor of information he was. Gilfoyle had some difficulty in finding Kedzie's address, but at last he learned it, and he made haste to her apartment. He was impressed by its gaudy vestibule. He told the hall-boy that he wanted to see Miss Adair. “Name, please?” “Just say a gentleman to see her.” “Gotta git the name, or I can't 'phome up. Miss Adair naturally won't see no gempman ain't got a name.” “Does she see many men?” Gilfoyle asked, with sudden alarm. “Oh, nossa. Mainly Mr. Dyckman. But that's her business.” “What Dyckman is that, the rich Jim Dyckman?” “Well, I ain't s'posed to give out info'mation.” “Are you supposed to take in money?” Gilfoyle juggled with a half-dollar. The hall-boy juggled his eyes in unison, and laughed yearningly: “I reckon I might let you up by mistake. Does you know Miss Adair right well?” “Very well--I'm a relative of hers by marriage. I want to surprise her.” “Oh, well, you better go on up.” Gilfoyle applied the magic silver wafer to the itching palm and stepped into the elevator when it came. CHAPTER XXVIII