Or, perhaps, he read reports of psychical societies, signed by men with any number of capital letters after their names:  cool-headed scientists, university professors, psychologists, grave students all, who were constantly finding new and wonderful mediums, and achieving communication with the disembodied.  He could tell them a few things; only, of course, he wouldn’t make a fool of himself.  He could show them something, too, when the secret agents of Professor Balthasar came bringing It.

Or he looked into the opal depths of his shell, and saw visions of his greatness to come, while Nap, unregarded, wrenched away one of his slippers and pretended to find it something alive and formidable, to be growled at and shaken and savagely macerated.

* * * * *

There came, on a certain fair morning, a summons from Breede, who was detained at his country place by the same malady that Bulger had once so crudely diagnosed.  Bean was to bring out the mail and do his work there.  The car waited below.

At another time the expedition might have attracted him.  He had studied pictures of that country place in the Sunday papers.  Now it meant a separation from his dog, who was already betraying for the Cassidys a greater fondness than the circumstances justified; and it meant an absence from town at the very time when the secret agents might happen along with It.  Of course he could refuse to go, but that would cost him his job, and he was not yet even the director of an express company.  Dejectedly he prepared for the journey.

“Better take some things along,” suggested Tully, who had conveyed the order to him.  “He may keep you three or four days.”

Bulger followed him to the hall.

“Look out for Grandma, the Demon!” warned Bulger. “’F I was the old man I’d slip something in her tea.”

“Who—­who is she?” demanded Bean.

“Just his dear, sweet old mother, that’s all!  Talk you to death—­suffergette!  Oh! say!”

Reaching the street, his gloom was not at all lightened by the discovery of the flapper in the waiting car.  She gave him the little double-nod and regarded him with that peculiar steely kindness he so well remembered.  It was undoubtedly kind, that look, yet there was an implacable something in its quality that dismayed him.  He wondered what she exactly meant by it.

“Get in,” commanded the flapper, and Bean got in.

“Tell him where to go for your things.”

Bean told him.

“I’m glad it’s on our way.  Pops is in an awful state.  He swore right out at his own mother this morning, and he wants you there in a hurry.  Maybe we’ll be arrested for speeding.”

Bean earnestly hoped they would.  Pops in health was ordeal enough.  But he remained silent, trusting to the vigilance of an excellent constabulary.  The car reached the steam-heated apartment without adventure, however, and he quickly secured his suit-case and consigned the dog for an uncertain period to a Cassidy, who was brazenly taking more than a friendly interest in him.  Cassidy talked bluntly of how “we” ought to feed him, as if he were already a part owner of the animal.