tingled radiantly.  At that hour of the evening the shining bustle of the central streets was drawing the life of the city to itself.  In the residential by-ways through which his route took him the pavements were nearly deserted.  A delicious sense of extravagant adventure possessed him.  As a newspaper man, he did not feel at all sure that he was on the threshold of a printable “story”; but as a connoisseur of juleps he felt that very possibly he was on the threshold of another drink.  Passing a line of billboards, he noticed a brightly colored poster advertising a brand of collars.  In sheer light-heartedness he drew a soft pencil from his waistcoat and adorned the comely young man on the collar poster with a heavy mustache.

Caraway Street, with which he had not previously been familiar, proved to be a quaint little channel of old brick houses, leading into the bonfire of the summer sunset.  There was nothing to distinguish number 1316 from its neighbors.  He rang the bell, and there ensued a rapid clicking in the lock, indicating that the latch had been released by some one within.  He pushed the door open, and entered.

He had a curious sensation of having stepped into an old Flemish painting.  The hall in which he stood was cool and rather dark, though a bright refraction of light tossed from some upper window upon a tall mirror filled the shadow with broken spangles.  Through an open doorway at the rear was the green glimmer of a garden.  In front of him was a mahogany sideboard.  On its polished top lay two books, a box of cigars, and a cut glass decanter surrounded by several glasses.  In the decanter was a pale yellow fluid which held a beam of light.  The house was completely silent.

Somewhat abashed, he removed his hat and stood irresolute, expecting some greeting.  But nothing happened.  On a rack against the wall he saw a gray uniform coat like that which Mr. Quimbleton had worn in the Balloon office, and a similar gray cap with the silver monogram.  He glanced at the books.  One was The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the other was a Bible, open at the second chapter of John.  He was looking curiously at the decanter when a voice startled him.

“Dandelion wine!” it said.  “Will you have a glass?”

He turned and saw an old gentleman with profuse white hair and beard tottering into the hall.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Bleak,” said the latter.  “I was expecting you.”

“You are very kind,” said the editor.  “I fear you have the advantage of me—­I was told that Walt Whitman died in 1892—­”

“Nonsense!” wheezed the other with a senile chuckle.  He straightened, ripped off his silver fringes, and appeared as the stalwart Quimbleton himself.

“Forgive my precautions,” he said.  “I am surrounded by spies.  I have to be careful.  Should some of my enemies learn that old Mr. Monkbones of Caraway Street is the same as Virgil Quimbleton of the Happiness Corporation, my life wouldn’t be worth—­well, a glass of gooseberry brandy.  Speaking of that, Have a little of the dandelion wine.”  He pointed to the decanter.