“Why, yes,” said he.  “The Excelsior.”

“And—­was there some sort of riot?”

“Yes.  Some ex-soldiers have been trying to keep people from going in there.  They are still at it.  You can hear them.”

I listened.  Yes, there was a murmur of voices outside.  So I realized what had happened to me.  I said:  “I was in that mob, and I got beaten up.  I was knocked pretty nearly silly, and fled in here.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the clergyman, his amiable face full of concern.  He took me by my shoulders and helped me to my feet.

“I’m all right now,” I said—­“except that my jaw is swollen.  Tell me, what time is it?”

“About six o’clock.”

“For goodness sake!” I exclaimed.  “I dreamed all that in an hour!  I had the strangest dream—­even now I can’t make up my mind what was dream and what really happened.”  I thought for a moment.  “Tell me, is there a convention of the Brigade—­that is, I mean, of the American Legion in Western City now?”

“No,” said the other; “at least, not that I’ve heard of.  They’ve just held their big convention in Kansas City.”

“Oh, I see!  I remember—­I read about it in the ‘Nation.’  They were pretty riotous—­made a drunken orgy of it.”

“Yes,” said the clergyman.  “I’ve heard that.  It seems too bad.”

“One thing more.  Tell me, is there a picture of Mr. de Wiggs in the vestry-room?”

“Good gracious, no!” laughed the other.  “Was that one of the things you dreamed?  Maybe you’re thinking of the portrait they are showing at the Academy.”

“By George, that’s it!” I said.  “I patched the thing up out of all the people I know, and all the things I’ve read in the papers!  I had been talking to a German critic, Dr. Henner—­or wait a moment!  Is he real?  Yes, he came before I went to see the picture.  He’ll be entertained to hear about it.  You see, the picture was supposed to be the delirium of a madman, and when I got this whack on the jaw, I set to work to have a delirium of my own, just as I had seen on the screen.  It was the most amazing thing—­so real, I mean.  Every person I think of, I have to stop and make sure whether I really know them, or whether I dreamed them.  Even you!”

“Was I in it?” laughed Mr. Simpkinson.  “What did I do?”

But I decided I’d better not tell him.  “It wasn’t a polite dream,” I said.  “Let me see if I can walk now.”  I started down the aisle.  “Yes, I’m all right.”

“Do you suppose that crowd will bother you again?  Perhaps I’d better go with you,” said the apostle of muscular Christianity.

“No, no,” I said.  “They’re not after me especially.  I’ll slip away in the other direction.”

So I bade Mr. Simpkinson good-bye, and went out on the steps, and the fresh air felt good to me.  I saw the crowd down the street; the ex-service men were still pushing and shouting, driving people away from the theatre.  I stopped for one glance, then hurried away and turned the corner.  As I was passing an office building, I saw a big limousine draw up.  The door opened, and a woman stepped out:  a bold, dark, vivid beauty, bedecked with jewels and gorgeous raiment of many sorts; a big black picture hat, with a flower garden and parts of an aviary on top—­