He took out his pyjamas and threw them on the bed; put his toothbrush and razor on the wash-basin, laid hairbrushes and O. Henry on the bureau.  Feeling rather serio-comic he loaded his small revolver and hipped it.  It was six o’clock, and he wound his watch.  He was a little uncertain what to do:  whether to keep a vigil at the window with the opera glasses, or go down in the street where he could watch the bookshop more nearly.  In the excitement of the adventure he had forgotten all about the cut on his scalp, and felt quite chipper.  In leaving Madison Avenue he had attempted to excuse the preposterousness of his excursion by thinking that a quiet week-end in Brooklyn would give him an opportunity to jot down some tentative ideas for Daintybits advertising copy which he planned to submit to his chief on Monday.  But now that he was here he felt the impossibility of attacking any such humdrum task.  How could he sit down in cold blood to devise any “attention-compelling” lay-outs for Daintybits Tapioca and Chapman’s Cherished Saratoga Chips, when the daintiest bit of all was only a few yards away?  For the first time was made plain to him the amazing power of young women to interfere with the legitimate commerce of the world.  He did get so far as to take out his pad of writing paper and jot down

Chapman’s cherished chips

These delicate wafers, crisped by a secret process, cherish in their unique tang and flavour all the life-giving nutriment that has made the potato the King of Vegetables——­

But the face of Miss Titania kept coming between his hand and brain.  Of what avail to flood the world with Chapman Chips if the girl herself should come to any harm?  “Was this the face that launched a thousand chips?” he murmured, and for an instant wished he had brought The Oxford Book of English Verse instead of O. Henry.

A tap sounded at his door, and Mrs. Schiller appeared.  “Telephone for you, Mr. Gilbert,” she said.

“For me?” said Aubrey in amazement.  How could it be for him, he thought, for no one knew he was there.

“The party on the wire asked to speak to the gentleman who arrived about half an hour ago, and I guess you must be the one he means.”

“Did he say who he is?” asked Aubrey.

“No, sir.”

For a moment Aubrey thought of refusing to answer the call.  Then it occurred to him that this would arouse Mrs. Schiller’s suspicions.  He ran down to the telephone, which stood under the stairs in the front hall.

“Hello,” he said.

“Is this the new guest?” said a voice—­a deep, gargling kind of voice.

“Yes,” said Aubrey.

“Is this the gentleman that arrived half an hour ago with a handbag?”

“Yes; who are you?”

“I’m a friend,” said the voice; “I wish you well.”

“How do you do, friend and well-wisher,” said Aubrey genially.