When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front houses.

“Be kind enough to enter my house with me,” said the sealskinned gentleman when they had alighted.  “He’s going to dig up, sure,” reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall.  His host conducted him through a door to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute darkness.  Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly in the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy tales.

The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with fantastic gold figures.  At the rear end of the room were draped portieres of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars.  The furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles.  The ex-coachman’s feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts.  There were three or four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet drapery.

Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with one eye.  With the other he looked for his imposing conductor—­to find that he had disappeared.

“B’gee!” muttered Thomas, “this listens like a spook shop.  Shouldn’t wonder if it ain’t one of these Moravian Nights’ adventures that you read about.  Wonder what became of the furry guy.”

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a brilliant electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the terrifying and impossible fowl.  The owl and his perch went over with a crash.  With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling.  The gold portieres parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered the room.  He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and accurate taste.  A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance.  If you can conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of his manner.  But Thomas McQuade was too near his d t’s to be mindful of his p’s and q’s.  When he viewed this silken, polished, and somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

“Say, doc,” said he resentfully, “that’s a hot bird you keep on tap.  I hope I didn’t break anything.  But I’ve nearly got the williwalloos, and when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the sideboard.”