“Is this Mr. Bleak?” he asked politely.

“Yes,” said the editor, in surprise.  His secret surmise was that some one had died and left him a legacy which would enable him to retire from newspaper work. (This is the unacknowledged dream that haunts many journalists.) Mr. Bleak was wondering whether this was the way in which legacies were announced.

The man in the gray uniform set the bag down with great care on the large flat desk.  He drew out a key and unlocked it.  Before opening it he looked round the room.  The city editor and three reporters were watching curiously.  A shy gayety twinkled in his clear blue eyes.

“Mr. Bleak,” he said, “you and these other gentlemen present are men of discretion—?”

Bleak made a gesture of reassurance.

The other leaned over the suit-case and lifted the lid.

The bag was divided into several compartments.  In one, the startled editor beheld a nest of tall glasses; in another, a number of interesting flasks lying in a porcelain container among chipped ice.  In the lid was an array of straws, napkins, a flat tray labeled cloves, and a bunch of what looked uncommonly like mint leaves.  Mr. Bleak did not speak, but his pulse was disorderly.

The man in gray drew out five tumblers and placed them on the desk.  Rapidly several bottles caught the light:  there was a gesture of pouring, a clink of ice, and beneath the spellbound gaze of the watchers the glasses fumed and bubbled with a volatile potion.  A glass mixing rod tinkled in the thin crystal shells, and the man of mystery deftly thrust a clump of foliage into each.  A well known fragrance exhaled upon the tobacco-thickened air.

“Shades of the Grail!” cried Bleak.  “Mint julep!”

The visitor bowed and pushed the glasses forward.  “With the compliments of the Corporation,” he said.

The city editor sprang to his feet.  Sagely cynical, he suspected a ruse.

“It’s a plant!” he exclaimed.  “Don’t touch it!  It’s a trick on the part of the Department of Justice, trying to get us into trouble.”

Bleak gazed angrily at the stranger.  If this was indeed a federal stratagem, what an intolerably cruel one!  In front of him the glasses sparkled alluringly:  a delicate mist gathered on their ice-chilled curves:  a pungent sweetness wavered in his nostrils.

“See here!” he blurted with shrill excitement.  “Are you a damned government agent?  If so, take your poison and get out.”

The tall stranger in his impressive uniform stood erect and unabashed.  With affectionate care he gave the tumblers a final musical stir.

“O ye of little faith!” he said calmly.  The sadness of the misunderstood idealist grieved his features.  “Have you forgotten the miracle of Cana?” From his pocket he took a card and laid it on the desk.

Bleak seized it.  It said: 

THE CORPORATION FOR THE PERPETUATION OF HAPPINESS