Even then, while he held it in his fingers, he hesitated.

“Don’t suppose it will do me any harm,” he muttered, doubtfully.

There was naturally no reply.  Mr. Alfred Burton laughed uneasily to himself.  The shadows of the room and its curious perfume were a trifle disconcerting.

“Risk it, anyway,” he concluded.  “Here goes!” He raised the little brown fruit—­which did indeed somewhat resemble a bean—­to his mouth and swallowed it.  He found it quite tasteless, but the deed was no sooner done than he was startled by a curious buzzing in his ears and a momentary but peculiar lapse of memory.  He sat and looked around him like a man who has been asleep and suddenly awakened in unfamiliar surroundings.  Then the sound of his client’s voice suddenly recalled him to himself.  He started up and peered through the gloom.

“Who’s there?” he asked, sharply.

“Say, young man, I am waiting for you when you’re quite ready,” Mr. Lynn remarked from the threshold.  “Queer sort of atmosphere in there, isn’t it?”

Mr. Alfred Burton came slowly out and locked the door of the room.  Even then he was dimly conscious that something had happened to him.  He hated the musty odor of the place, the dusty, unswept hall, and the general air of desertion.  He wanted to get out into the street and he hurried his client toward the front door.  As soon as he had locked up, he breathed a little sigh of relief.

“What a delicious soft wind!” he exclaimed, removing his unsightly hat.  “Really, I think that when we get a sunny day like this, April is almost our most beautiful month.”

Mr. Lynn stared at his companion, who was now slowly descending the steps.

“Say, about this house,” he began, “I guess I’d better take it.  It may not be exactly what I want but it seems to me to be about as near as anything I am likely to find.  We’ll go round to the office right away and fix things up.”

Mr. Alfred Burton shook his head doubtfully.

“I don’t think I would take it, if I were you, Mr. Lynn,” he said.

Mr. Lynn stopped short upon the pavement and looked at his companion in amazement.  The latter had the air of one very little interested in the subject of conversation.  He was watching approvingly a barrowful of lilac and other spring flowers being wheeled along by a flower-seller in the middle of the road.

“What an exquisite perfume!” the young man murmured, enthusiastically.  “Doesn’t it remind you, Mr. Lynn, of a beautiful garden somewhere right away in the country—­one of those old-fashioned gardens, you know, with narrow paths where you have to push your way through the flowers, and where there are always great beds of pink and white stocks near the box edges?  And do you notice—­an accident, of course—­but what a delicate blend of color the lilac and those yellow jonquils make!”

“I can’t smell anything,” the American declared, a little impatiently, “and I don’t know as I want to just now.  I am here to talk business, if you don’t mind.”